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January 08, 2003
"you are such a fuckin pessimist"
So begins, and ends, an email sent to my address at the Neurotic Eclectic, from a person identified only as "WuzzupGirl666." WuzzupGirl666 failed to indicate which of my writings motivated her missive, so we can only speculate. Was she convinced of my pessimism by my writing about the gas leak in my tiny, bathroomless apartment? My dismal accounts of the run-down, overcrowded, soul-numbing shopping malls in the greater New York City area? Barring further communication from WuzzupGirl666, the world shall never know.
One thing, though, is certain. I am a pessimist. If I were to describe the degree to which I am a pessimist using one strangely-unpunctuated abbreviation of a common vulgarity, that semi-word would be "fuckin." WuzzupGirl666, you are right: I am a fuckin pessimist.
Or, rather, I was a fuckin pessimist.
Today I am born anew! I hereby cast off these iron shackles of depression and dance into the sunny green meadows of joy! No more concern that life is a relentless march toward a lonely, syphilis-plagued demise! No more restless reeling in my bed as dream-demons jab me with white-hot pitchforks! No more frozen pizzas! Well, okay, maybe some more frozen pizzas. But the good kind! With the rising crust!
I am no longer a pessimist! I am an optimist!
I thank you, WuzzupGirl666, for alerting me to my former weak, tormented status. As a born-again optimist, I am free to appreciate the little moments in life that make it worth living. Iâve definitely taken more notice of the occasions when other people look out for my well-being. Here, let me give you an example. About a month ago, I returned home from work to find this note affixed to my door:
At first, the note confused me. What does it mean to "shave duties?" And just what is "toliet paper?" I showed the note to my good friend, Shaun. He informed me that in Klingon -- a language he has worked long and hard to teach himself from scratch! -- when someone asks you to "shave toliet paper duties," that person wants you to go to the store, purchase toilet paper, and leave it by the toilet for them to use. Clearly, this note was either from a member of a trained Klingon battle squadron, or my next-door neighbor, Cindy, with whom I share a bathroom at the end of the hall. Since I couldnât tell which, I went on with my life.
Now, I never expected or wanted to share my ass-wiping habits with the world, but I am a busy man. Since Iâve "found optimism," so to speak, I spend most of my time frolicking in autumn mist and going to Bruce Springsteen concerts. I simply donât have the time to be reading anonymous notes taped to my door and trying to translate them into English. So, in order to prevent any more ass-wiping-related communications, allow me to present the following chart. Cindy, and World, please print this page out, clip the chart (get an adult to help with the scissors), and tape it to your refrigerator for future reference.
HOW TONY WIPES HIS ASS
1. Tony acquires money. This is done either at a place of employment or by begging on the street, depending on his current situation.
2. Tony goes to the store and buys toilet paper.
3. Tony brings the toilet paper home.
4. Tony goes to the bathroom down the hall, bringing a roll of toilet paper with him.
5. Tony takes a shit.
6. Tony wipes his ass WITH HIS OWN TOILET PAPER, IGNORING ANY ROLLS OF TOILET PAPER WHICH HAVE OBVIOUSLY BEEN LEFT THERE BY OTHER PEOPLE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS? I AM NOT SOME TOILET-PAPER-THIEVING LEECH, CINDY! I BRING MY OWN!
7. Tony may or may not wash his hands.
8. Tony returns to his apartment WITH THE ROLL OF TOILET PAPER WHICH HE HIMSELF WORKED AND EARNED MONEY TO PURCHASE AND THEN USED TO WIPE HIS OWN ASS.
Itâs embarrassing for me to have to go into such detail about this, but believe me, itâs necessary. I wish Iâd posted this list on the World Wide Web a long time ago. Perhaps if everyone knew how I wipe my ass, I would have avoided running into Cindy and her tittering female friend in the hallway a week after she taped the note to my door. I would not have been confronted, point-blank, in person, and interrogated about the way in which I choose to cleanse my sphincter in front of another -- attractive, I might add -- female person. And I would not have then slunk into my apartment, turned off the lights, sat down on the floor in the center of the room, and, my body shuddering with quiet sobs, whimpered myself to sleep. Thanks to the public posting of the above step-by-step list -- made possible only by my newfound optimism -- this will never, ever happen again.
Thank you.
Posted by tony at January 8, 2003 12:00 AM
