I hate it when a fresh roll of toilet paper falls into the toilet when I am trying to load it into the dispenser. This happened last night when the dispenser rod misfired and shot my Charmin into the toilet bowl. The resulting soggy mess, a total loss of perfectly good merchandise, made my heart sink: I had guests and that was my last roll. I fished out the dead and bloated wad of tissue, wrapped it in a towel, and—feeling like a criminal—discreetly disposed of it in the garage. There I sawed a roll of paper towels in half, smoothed the rough edges, and flitted back to the bathroom to hang that up instead.
It’s just been that kind of week.
It started out on Monday when I was driving around in my car and thought, Hm, it smells like manure in here. Where did that manure smell come from? Sniff sniff. Why does my car smell like shit? I bet a dog got in here and took a big dump in the back seat. That is really ripe. I can’t believe my car smells like shit! Whosever dog shit in this car is going to pay to have this cleaned. When I got home from running errands, I tore the car apart: no poop. I popped the trunk and grabbed the bag of organic plant and tree fertilizer I’d purchased earlier. Holy, this thing frickin’ reeks. I’m not keeping this in the garage. I placed the bag near some bushes in the front yard and forgot about it. A few days later when I was outside raking my gravel, so the escapees’ footprints would be easy to identify, my thoughts once again turned toward the ongoing persecution of me. Jesus Christ it smells like shit out here. I am so frickin’ tired of every cat in this neighborhood using my yard as a litter box. I would die if my cats did this to someone else. What is it about this one spot—that must be one big nasty cat leaving that kind of stench… I looked up from raking and saw my bag of organic plant and tree fertilizer cowering by its bush, quietly waiting to be whipped.
And then maybe the most egregious offense I committed against myself happened earlier today. To relieve stress, I was on my hands and knees in the living room, vigorously running the tips of my fingers between the baseboard and the carpet, picking out wads of cat hair. I had enough hair to make one kitten and my spirits were rising when suddenly it felt like my middle finger got shot off. I howled and leaped up and shoved that finger into my face, but was unable to detect a wound. I hopped around, finger to the world, wondering Why no blood? Why no mark? Why such pain?
Who knew that impaling myself on a carpet staple would make the same questions I’d been asking all week resonate with such force.