And you looked so happy, it made me want to invent a machine that could funnel these wishes into a reality for you.
I’m not here to “fix” you—though I wish I could mend the bits they broke off of you—I just want to show you what true, selfless caring and affection is like.
All I wanted to say is that sometimes, when you’re trying your best not to like someone so much, they end up being an individual with a lot more pluses in their personalities than cons.
Where the crap were we about two years earlier? Oh. Yeah. Involved in messy relationships with people who we couldn’t help but love.
I’m going to stop writing, because this is starting to sound like an opening monologue of a RomCom.
Acknowledging it. I like to leave up stupid things so I can look back on it and …hopefully not feel so bad for having whatever thought I had floating in my mind moments before. I don’t think I can top that one.
It’s really no one’s business, but you know when something happens to you and you just want to scream it to everyone and no one at the same time?* It’s a sort of secret that’s so great, you wish everyone knew, yet wanted to keep the spark in your heart, all to yourself.
Having that right now.
And you’re my everyone, and my no one.
So here it goes.
He makes me feel special.
Cherished, but free.
So not like a Monet at the Tate Modern, but like someone putting up a frame around street art.
I can’t even really describe it without succumbing to a gushy mess.
Really, he was a good decision, and I’m glad we like each other, with no expectations.
God, can I get more vague? Jesus.
*Totally, maybe a run-on
And my brain decided, “Hey, you, you know what would be an awesome thing to do? Design your tattoo.”
To which I said, “You know what, that’s a lot better than trying not to think of zombie-esque vampires standing over my prone, semi-conscious body whenever I close my eyes.”
My noodle is a persuasive bastard, she is.
There’s a funny caption here, somewhere.
(Source: amnemonic, via littlesnowwitch-deactivated2012)
A friend told me that I was his personal Gandhi because I changed his life for the better by introducing him to the defecating method which I refer to as: The Shitting Nest.
You lace the seat of the toilet with quilted toilet paper (for sturdiness, though it also adds comfort) and then proceed to crouch atop the seat as if you were a hen laying an egg. Not only does this help one’s body propel the poo out more easily (or so I read somewhere), but the act of crouching naturally seperates one’s cheeks and opens the arsehole, thus allowing for a much deeper clean - as well as providing easier access to the penis. When peeing, I often pretend I’m a fireman with my penis acting as a hose.
“There’s a fire at 31 King Street!” radios the operator.
“Truck 501 checking into command, we’re in the area - we got this“
I then wrap my hand around my penis and proceed to extinguish the fire, complete with sound effects.
Being serious for a moment, not only is the shitting nest a viable solution to a cleaner, shinier arsehole - it also provides a unique perspective on the act of emptying one’s bladder. As the urine gushes out majestically - one can but marvel at the sheer beauty and intricacy of the human body. What cogs and wheels must turn for our body to achieve this remarkable feat. The minute it takes for the bladder to empty, with nothing but the sound of urine trinkling, is also a welcome reprieve from the noise and hecticity of everyday life.
P.S. When crouched atop the seat, you can also extend your arms fully and recreate the famous scene from The Titanic in your own bathroom. Take in a netbook with Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On and, baby, you’ve got a full-blown Hollywood reenactment going. You could even pretend to be an eagle… or a plane if you wish, your call. Eagles are badass motherfuckers, though.
