Weeds

Less refreshing

Peeing outdoors is a visceral pleasure, and one I delight in often. In fact, I take it as a personal challenge to destroy as much of the plant life in my yard as possible. Although I have to be careful when my friends start complaining about all their tomato plants dying. And before it reaches that point, I have to resist the urge to giggle like a small fat child every time they comment on the flavor of their home-grown vegetables.

When I'm by myself I'm a wild animal. I move a foot stool so I can rest my slimy balls on it. I discard food scraps to the floor, which rodents then fight to the death over for my amusement. And worst of all, I drink directly from the jug. I don't even know what cups are for. Oh, except for peeing into when I'm too lazy to make it outdoors.

When you live in your own place by yourself, you get used to being a - just - disgusting pile of shit. You wade through the steaming heap of trash that is your home, shovel out a small place on the couch, and then settle there like a bloated behemoth with a rack of watery beer so you can binge-watch Scooby Doo for 6 hours. Once you get used to the sights and sounds of your borderline unlivable surroundings, it just blurs into a meaningless haze. I imagine it's a similar effect that occurred to the folks who had to clean out Fukushima. "Hey Ichiro, are you getting a radiation high too? This is awesome! Have you seen my skin by the way?"

However, when you live with someone else, the chance to be a slovenly animal suddenly becomes a rare treat. You wait with baited breath for them to leave the house. Then with a furtive glance side-to-side, you drop a single slightly-used sock to the floor. And then you let out a long luxurious sigh. All of your cares seem to vanish. An hour later, that single sock has grown to include half your belongings. Then an hour later you work harder than you ever have in your whole life to clean it all up, so that you can be waiting for your loved one at the door with a smile and a thin sheen of sweat.

Oh, but there's always that one pair of streaked underwear you forgot about. And they find it. Ooooh, how they find it. And you pay for it. And you wait, like a trapped animal you wait. Until the next time they leave. Then ALL of your underwear will be streaked and on the floor. And this cycle continues forever until one of you dies. And depending on who dies first determines whether the final resting place of your dentures is on the floor or in a trash bin.

Ah love.

~Fuzzy