December 2012
It’s too fucking cold. It’s too cold and I may have to take the dreaded work shit. Breaking a covenant I made with myself long ago, that after every shit would come a shower. They scoff at me for this, society. What’s the matter, can’t you wipe? Yes, I can, but this is not an FDA-permitted 3 rat hairs in your can of chili situation. Any amount of shit on your body ever is unacceptable. I wipe till the paper comes up clean or bloody, but that is not enough. If I shat on your hand, would you give it a couple dry passes with a napkin and call it a day? No, knave, you’d wash your fucking hand.
I live in mortal fear of any pair of underwear I own getting skidmarks on them. The white bits turning brown from my musky taint sweat is not an issue; holes are not an issue– there are boxers where my distended left nut hangs fully outside the garment and grinds into my car keys. I still keep them around. But once I see a skid mark, those underwear will be immolated. No exceptions. Continue reading
delicioustacos 