Since moving up to The Guest Room at Kaye's Bed and Breakfast [Note to Kaye: Where the fuck has breakfast been?], I've discovered this treasure trove of "books for guests" that Kaye has left here on the bedside table. I'm supposed to be reading this book my therapist gave me, so I can be less crazy and not so bonkers in the next relationship, but really what I've done for the past hour is read Mindy Kahling's book.
I suppose it already goes without saying that she is my people. I don't know why the sides of this image are cut off, and fixing it would require effort. The point is, funny book.
I mean, who wants to read about why they're bonkers? Can't I just take a pill or something and cure that shit? Can't I just stampede to the next relationship and that'll fix that? What do you mean same thing over and over expecting different results? Say, why don't you fuck me right in the ass.
Which you won't want to do when I tell you the following story. I mean, as opposed to now, when you're working on your How To Get Over My Obsession With Fucking June in the Ass Support Group exercises.
When we last left each other, it was Monday night, and we kept saying, "YOU hang up." "No, YOU hang up" and I really wish I'd have said CUNextTuesday, but I forgot. The rest of my evening went without incident, and I went to bed about 10:30.
Mark that on your June's Calendar of Events.
I don't even know when I woke up. All I know is it was dark, and my hair was sweaty. Oh, I felt bad. Nauseated? It was like the power of Christ compelled me. Fortunately, I did not barf, because as we all know, I do NOT barf unless Peg my neighbor poisons me. But I visited the oval office. I sure did.
And I felt bad, because while Kaye has an upstairs and I was in it, it's not a huge house and I didn't want to wake her with my gastrointestinal distress. After my 71st trip to the bathroom?
The toilet overflowed.
I don't mean I wasn't flushing each time, I was. It was so awful to see that water rising at me, like Noah before the flood. I'd certainly loaded the boat number two by two. "Oh, god," I said, filled with terror and panic and nausea. I knew Kaye had a plunger in her bathroom downstairs, which meant I was gonna have to walk into her room to get to it.
Her door was open, so I sneaked in there like a murderer or an intruder, a turd burglar, if you will. I was just sneaking out with the plunger when she rolled over. "I'm sick, and I've overflowed the toilet," I whispered to her.
Can you imagine a charminger house guest?
"Oh, honey," she said, throwing back the covers. Now, see, this is why everyone is nicer than me. I'd have said, "Are you barf sick?" and headed for my luggage. Instead she WENT UP THERE WITH ME and helped me plunge the bathroom.
So it's been a pleasant 24 hours, and I feel lighter in my loafers, at least, and I'm trying to think of it as a cleanse.
June's Post-Poop Coworkers' Senior Picture
Now I've made it sound like my coworker did all the pooping, and I'm certain she's happy I picked this day to show her photo.
You know, sometimes people read my blog and I have no idea they're reading me. This woman works on a different floor, and is similarly friends with The Poet, and oh, once she was on Jeopardy. The point is, she sent me an email saying she'd looked up ridiculous senior picture poses and found this.
Then she became obsessed with emulating it. "I hope I get a good blog name," she told me, and yes, Alex, you do.
I will talk to you tomorrow, and I am sincerely hoping for a more copacetic evening, in which most of my innards stay in me, with the exception of the crazy and bonkers part, which as everyone knows can be cured by reading Mindy Kaling.