#509: WHY YOU WISH YOU WERE ME or THIS POST IS AN EXCUSE TO GET OUT OF BED THAT DOESN'T INVOLVE PHYSICAL LABOUR, LIKE UNPACKING ANOTHER BOX
- We have moved into an apartment with a tiny bathroom. I took this picture while pressing myself up against a pipe in the corner behind the toilet, and I still couldn't get the toilet into the photo. The whole bathroom has been sized down for the diminuitive: there is a step up into it so that the whole room is that much shorter, the bathtub is one-half to two-thirds the size of a regular tub, the shower curtain rod is low, the tub is narrow, and even the moulded shelves in the tub surround are smaller as well. The toilet, thankfully, is of average size.
Pros: the bathroom can be cleaned in about five or ten minutes; if you're in a rush, there are only about two-and-a-half feet between the door and the toilet; it is far less likely to drown in a bathtub that you can't lie down in and that is barely the depth of your head.
Cons: when a small bathroom is smelly, it is very, very smelly; the two of us can barely fit in there at the same time; the cat does not fit on the narrow tub edge and is often in danger of falling in, which would be a shame, because he recently stopped doing that at the old apartment; when you are getting ready for work in the morning, it feels like you're being crowded, and if you're me, you start anthropomorphizing the infrastructure as though they were co-passengers on the bus (the toilet is socially inept and making a pathetic attempt at appearing small by crowding itself into the corner, the tub is that fat guy with his legs spread really far apart who keeps staring at your shoulder in obvious avoidance of your breasts, and the sink is that short person who you end up pressed up against and pretending that neither of you are aware of the intimacy of the situation).
- I can develop far too deep a relationship with the inanimate forces in my life.
- I am a fan of Desmond Dekker's smooth, smooth voice, which makes me one über cool cat.
- I have a propensity for being all moody about the inevitability of death. Lately, I often find myself staring absently out the window and thinking Oskar [the cat] / the Fiery One / I / anything alive that I am attached to will die one day, and it will likely be unexpected, and the grief of it seems so unfair, and then I have a minor anxiety fit because I can't do anything about it. BO-RING, I tells you. Oh, woe is me, I am trapped by my own mortality. Next.
- Help! Help! My butt is falling and it won't get up!
- You wish you had acne in your thirties, too, so that while you were volunteering at a theatre event last night you could run to the bathroom every ten minutes to leech off the yellow goo that kept forming at an alarming rate under the scab on a persistent zit.
- I have such an aversion to the number six that I will make point number seven just to avoid it.
- I take back point number five. My butt has barely fallen. It is morphing into some new kind of butt, but it has not yet fallen.
- I have telephone anxiety, and when I try to get over it, things like this happen.
- I make these self-deprecating posts, and then friends take me aside and tell me with the hush of confidential intimacy that I am too hard on myself and ask if I am doing alright. This is therapeutic, my friends. If I can malign my ass for the jiggly bits it's producing at its bottom end, then I can laugh at it.
- Even my butt gets to have its own character in my reality play. Of course, it gets a speaking part. It's too much of a comedian to keep in the wings.
- I started a photographic collection of people wearing glasses, and the number of people that submitted pictures has been stuck at 41 for ages. I don't like the number forty-one. It seems unfriendly. It has sharper, prickly edges but is too noncommittal to be an out and out bastard. (Would someone out there be number 42? Pretty please?)
- This point is merely a vehicle to get past itself.
- I am kicking myself, because this is one of those what-I-ate-for-lunch posts. Well, the joke's on me, because I didn't even eat lunch. I can not eat lunch and still come off all what-I-ate-for-lunchy.
If you're feeling critical, suck it. I'll be better when the drugs kick in. Or when they wear off. Oh, wait. I have to pee. These meat machines are so confusing.
- I can't figure out if that title, Why You Wish You Were Me, should actually read Why You Wish You Were I. Think about it. It's a mindfuck.