because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Monday, 28 November 2011

"Yes, but was your bum clean?" said Mum.

Look. This is gross, and I know it, and I’m sorry I even told you already BUT do you know what? Once you get past the gross, it’s actually kinda funny. BUT yes, I am still single and no, I no longer question myself why that might be so. BUT I will continue to say poop and vagina on the daily. I'm kinda built that way. 

There was a boy. Well, a man actually. DETAILS. We made plans. Drinks were to be had, conversation to be made, flirting to be undertaken. Totally normal.


The day before our date I found out that Rome was staging another transport strike. The metro and bus was to run between 5 p.m. and 8 p.m. only. I needed the bus to get home. It would take three days to walk. OH NO! I thought, when I found out, I’LL HAVE TO CANCEL. And my friend was all, JUST STAY AT HIS and I was like, WELL I KIND OF GUESSED IT WOULD GO THAT WAY BUT I CAN’T RELY ON IT and she was all YOU’VE FAILED IF YOU DON’T SCREW HIM and I was all IT’S A SCHOOL NIGHT and in the end I decided that taxis exist and so I’d just fork out for a cab if I didn’t end up at his house and I wouldn’t tell my friend that my date-story had failed to get me mine.
THING IS the transport strike also meant that I had to leave the house that morning at 8 a.m. because the buses stop at 8.30 am. Romans strike all the time, but make sure there is still transport for the commuter traffic. That’s why the times are all weird.
ANYWAAAAAAAAY I had to get up really early to do the girly stuff so that I was cute for the meet: blow-dry my hair, sort out my lady garden YOU KNOW THE SORT. I chose a smart/casual outfit with an air of ‘This? I just came from school…’ about it but still kinda cute. I ended up covered in paint that day anyway, but the effort was there.
I don’t start work until 2p.m. so I had to hang out in central Rome until my shift started. That’s okay. I wrote about my vagina in a café for a bit. No problem.
Except I went to the bathroom. And because I drank beer the night before and my friend had cooked me RISOTTO AND MASHED POTATO I had sloppy poop.
Sloppy. Poop.

The fact that I ate both risotto and mashed potato as part of the same meal is like, a way different story, but I'll address that in the short term with hey! YOU TEACH KIDS ALL DAY AND THEN TELL ME THAT CARBS AREN'T YOUR ONLY FRIEND.
I wiped, I flushed, I pulled up my pants. OH. I realised I needed to use the toilet brush on the loo because sloppy poop leaves a mess behind.
I SLIPPED AS I DIPPED IN THE BRUSH AND THE DIRTY WATER AND THE POOP WENT EVERYWHERE. Including on my trousers. I am sat back at the table in the café, and when I looked down I was all FUCK DID I GET CHOCOLATE FROM MY CROISSANT ON MY PANTS and then I thought NOOOOOO THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE CHOCOLATE and then I was all SHIT. I HAVE ACTUAL SHIT ON MYSELF and then I tried to use a napkin and water to wipe it off which meant going to meet a man with smeared SHIT all over my crotch.
My thought process was pretty much:

I have Shit. On. My. Crotch.
HOWEVER: chances of getting laid are high.
HOWEVER: chances of getting laid diminish enormously if I have shit on myself.
HOWEVER: Vagina.
Internet? VAGINA WON.
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