The First Part is Here.
I have been appropriately chastised for not timely posting what happened with the poop situation. By all means, if you want to join in chastising me, feel free to leave me a comment, e-mail or instant message me throughout the work day. I like it. A whole hell of a lot. However, in an effort to avoid further rebuke I am here at 11:30 at night writing a story about a girl that poops in others’ houses and freely deposits the paper with which she wipes her anus in my trash can.
Before we begin - you should know two things. First, I fell asleep watching Studio 60 a bit ago and woke back up, so I am a little tired and a bit out of it. Second, I am drinking a nice warm cup of coffee while listening to August and Everything After, the Counting Crows debut album from 1994. At this very moment Rain King is playing. I don’t know what 1994 was for you, but for me it was a pretty fucking fantastic year. I was 18 and starting college, and August and Everything After, along with Pearl Jam’s Vs., were the soundtrack to that year.
"What is the fucking point?" you ask. Well, there is none. I just wanted to let you know what I am doing at this moment. It is helping us bond, and become best friends forever (BFF). Now we can e-mail each other about our hopes and dreams. We can intimately discuss who you have a crush on, or whether George should be with Callie. When you are lonely late at night you can call me and we can discuss whether Ingrid Bergman should have gotten on that plane or stayed with Humphrey Bogart. I am pouring my heart out here people. Show a little appreciation.
Without further ado, here is how the evening went down:
Near 7:00 o’clock on Friday evening, Jason, Susan and Jamie show up at my place. Prior to their arrival your hero surreptitiously removed the trash can from the bathroom. Let me set the scene a little. My house is a little large for me. At last count it is a 3000 square feet, four bedroom, 2 and a half bath, recently constructed suburban home. (Note: the size of my house has nothing to do with the story, I just wanted to make you New York City folks a little envious.) Anyway, my living room is downstairs. If you go down the hallway a bit from the living room I have a half bathroom, which guests tend to use. There are no cabinets within the half bath, only a commode (I like that word) and a sink. Further down the hallway is the door to my bedroom. If you go through my bedroom, another door leads to my bathroom. Inside my bathroom is another commode, and this one is enclosed in a small little room. I call it the pee room.
So the plan was to watch a couple of episodes of Extras, and drink like mad cows. About a half hour into the evening Jamie decides she has to go. So I try to keep my eye on the bathroom door so I can enter as soon as she leaves. I try to hang just outside of the door because I was a little overzealous and obsessed with what was happening in there. I would estimate she was in there the normal time it takes a girl to expel urine from her body. However, there was no flush. The door opened and out she came.
I gave her a little nod, and then went in like I was waiting for the bathroom. The water in the toilet was calm, and didn’t look as if it was in a post-flush refill. The sink was dry, so I know no hand washing occurred. The point is, she didn’t go. I did a little look around to make sure there was nothing stashed anywhere, but there was not. I don’t know what there is to do in a bathroom besides piss and shit, but maybe she was doing some girl-thing in there. I don’t know. But I know she didn’t urinate.
Okay, now lets fast forward to Garrett at five beers later. I saw Jamie go down the hallway to the bathroom a few times, but at those particular moments in time, I did not care about what she was doing with her vagina-wiping paper. My only thought was to consume more alcoholic beverage. Which I did with abandon and vigor.
To make a long story short, I had sex with Jamie. It was amazing, and a little magical. I cannot even describe it as “sex.” It was “making love.” I love her with a passion that I cannot describe in words.
Are you fucking kidding me? I did not have sex with the poop girl. I did discover something though, after my little friends were gone.
As soon as they left I went down through my bedroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and through my bathroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and into the Pee Room (which was closed before, but - well it was still closed). As I stood there and urinated in a drunken stupor I looked down at the trash can to discover several wadded, balls of urine-soaked toilet paper. “Well, fuck me!” I believe were my exact words.
She fucking switched bathrooms on me. I am astounded. Dumbfounded, you might say.
So that is it. This girl so feels the need to deposit her excrement wiping substances into something other than the toilet that she has to change bathrooms to find one with a trash can. I no longer think it has to do with being a farm-girl or with plumbing in any way. I think she must have some kind of weird psychological ailment or sick fetish. Maybe it is like when animals mark their territory, and if I went to her apartment I would see a Shrine to Garrett. She comes to my house so she can deposit pee to mark my house as hers, and every night she writes in her pink diary, "I am one step closer to becoming Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid."
So what do you think of that?