Okay, who shat in the sink? This kind of atmosphere is really interfering with my attempts to stay positive, especially because I have a weak stomach and so I threw up on the feces and now I'm just avoiding the bathroom completely. I did turn on the faucet, of course, but the job was hardly thorough and I am concerned that I cannot go back to clean it without triggering horrible sickness and panic attacks.
There is good news, though. I have been trying to come up with some all week, so here it is: I've vacuumed all of my clothing and I've ironed the carpet, even stepped into the shower (in the other bathroom) to have a nice rinse, and by George, I am feeling clean as a whistle. Like the sort of whistle that your dalmatian plays with repeatedly throughout the afternoon as it hopes to discern which category of food the whistle falls into. The sort of whistle that they find in a dead guy's rectum who is found alone in their apartment, hanging from a rope and clearly engaging in distasteful, lustful activities at the time of their unfortunate demise. Well, maybe a little bit cleaner than that. I am skeptical, since giant chunks of black shit keep falling out of my hair, and there are strange lumps all over my forehead which have made me reevaluate the wisdom of hats. No amount of scrubbing and brushing can provide the solution to this particular malaise.
Maybe I need to change the routine. I realized I was going blind shortly after my driver's license was revoked, and the deafness has been at bay for years, manifesting itself with an incrementalist approach which fucks with me constantly, since I can barely hear anything at all now. The hand shakes are so debilitating that I am unable to hold stable employment. Doctor Gregory Ross says there is nothing I can do, and suggested that I increase my alcohol intake. Now, I pay Dr. Ross a handsome fee for his salient medical advice, but I think I am going to try something else. In fact, I have reached my decision. I am going to be an Olympic swimmer.
The first problem, of course, is going to be not drowning. I am going to get some swimming lessons to start with, and then work my way up the ladder until I am competing in the greatest of events, barely staving off the total blindness and deafness, and I don't think the hand shakes will really matter, although I guess it is kind of embarrassing when you receive the trophy. This is only a minor nuisance, and I will certainly be 'saying cheese', in a ridiculously enthusiastic pose, as the photographers blind me further in their vicious flash attack. Finally, something to look forward to.
The newspaper suggested a number of teachers, and I chose the one with the funniest name (Yolanda Hollandaise), who to my surprise had extremely poor English, which was not really what I had been expecting. I brushed aside my concerns only so temporarily, learning that her fees were not enough to cover entry into any respectable community swimming pools, and we would be learning in the Essex-Hudson Dumpster River; one of the isolated spots where the beavers engage in their role playing of Civil War battles. It is a pretty creepy place, and it smells worse than my sink. Three hours and one rejected pass later, we drove back to Starbucks to enjoy a couple of decaf macchiatos, and then called it a day. The Olympic swimming thing? Damn, I'll have to think about it for a couple of weeks, while I explore some other, more potentially feasible options. It looks like someone else cleaned up the shit-puke, which means I can wash away the traitorous Confederate fur from my filthy likeness. It is going to be a long night.
