So I had another glorious day at the office doing nothing. You know your job is dull when you perk up when someone emails you something to print and you think that's an exciting thought. Can life be any more boring that that?
And I came home and ate my lovely dinner (the one I didn't eat last night), and then I came up here to go to bed, only my friend Caesar (who's a thoroughly straight Italian man who happens to be my best girlfriend in New York - go figure) came over, so I had to go downstairs and have another beer with him. He wants me to write a play about the lady who stayed on the toilet for two years. I'm thinking about it. If nothing else, it would be an interesting exercise.
Two years on the toilet. (Admittedly, I distinctly remember some marathon toilet stays, but that was years ago when I used to drink tequila on a regular basis. Coincidentally, that was also when I decided that someone should come out with mentholated toilet paper.) I can't wrap my mind around this, somehow. To begin with, not being insane, if somebody in my house stayed in the bathroom for a full DAY I'd get alarmed about it (unless this person was a madly hormonal 14 year year old girl, in which case it would be perfectly normal). If they were in there for a week, I'd sure as hell be calling the EMTs, the cops, and my friendly local mental ward in one fast hurry. What on earth do you think was going through her boyfriend's head? If anything? And of course, the most important consideration - please tell me this was a two bathroom house. I mean, I am well aware that gentlemen are equipped with apparatus which makes it much easier for them to pee in, say, the kitchen sink, but there are other functions which really do require a toilet...I think I'll just leave that thought there. Yeccch.
I'm going to bed...that is, after I go to the bathroom.
With all good scatological wishes to you,
Love, Wendy
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