I use too much toilette paper. I have a strange relationship with this instrument of cleanliness. I have clogged many a porcelain with its dotted squares; yet as much as I rely on that paper I feel as if it hates me back. It's an honestly sad unrequited love story.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
(Editor's note: I promise these tails have been merely surplus and not, um, used. I don't think I could tell this story otherwise ha...).
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
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