Okay, so.
I have roomies, now.
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but I HATE living with other people. Mainly, because I'm a wretched, ogre-ish bitch and VERY set in my ways. And, I can't stand having to put up with other peoples', ahhhh, dirtiness? Yeah. I guess that's pretty much it. It's okay to be dirty in your OWN house, but I think when you live with other people, if you guys aren't dating or married, you should probably pull yourself together and clean up your act, so to speak.
Example 1:
Does anyone know what this is?
Here, allow me to zoom in:
I'll give you a hint. It's dried poop. And, it's been there for a week, now. Mind you, this is not a trick of the lens that I'm doing with my awesome point-n-shoot cam skills. This is the LID of the potty. For those of you who might be confused as to where that is, it's located on the OUTSIDE of the toilet.
Now, let me back up for a minute and tell you, I'm going to be talking a lot about the roomies, but we're going to use nicknames, so that we don't severely embarrass anyone. Because God knows I've done enough horrifying stuff that I actually HAVEN'T posted on my blog, although I haven't the slightest clue as to why. It's not as if my life could be anymore shameful than crapping in my pants, while being attacked by a psycho.
But, I digress. And, now, regress.
While I was NOT present for the making of this piece of art, I can pretty much guarantee it was Shatner who did it. The reason I know this is because when Shatner and I lived together previously, he had a night of drunken debauchery - his birthday, as a matter of fact.
A few months ago, he got REALLY shit-faced (no pun.........THIS time) and when we got home, he managed to shit, not only all in his pants (and then, subsequently HIDE them deep within the bowels of the dirty laundry, which I found LATER, much to my dismay and the disgust and almost projectile vomit of brand new boyfriend who was helping me do my laundry), but it covered the whole outside of the toilet, as well as the floor, tub, and the wall to the sink, which were on either sides of the toilet. As I came in from escorting new boyfriend to his car, I opened the bathroom door, just to check on him, and saw Shatner standing BUTT NAKED in the middle of the bathroom. He said, "JUST A MINUTE!," and slammed the door in my face. "Uhhhh, you're naked. Are you...okay?" "Yeah, I just got sick," and as I looked down, I realized that I was standing in a pool of alcohol-vomit, outside the bathroom door.
I pulled some yucky towels out of the closet and mopped it all up. I managed to somehow get Shatner coaxed back into the bed (while we were no longer dating and no longer sleeping together, we WERE still sleeping in the same bed - hey, I used to hate letting a king-sized bed go to waste, but that was SO long ago...) and he finally went to sleep. In the morning, when I awoke, I went to said bath-puke-pooproom and noticed there was, what appeared to be dried shit and toilet paper all over the floor, bathtub, potty and wall. I managed to get most of it mopped up with some lysol and a rag, and when I made it back into the bedroom, I saw...POO STAINS ON THE SHEET.
If you know anything about me and my relationship with my bed, you'll understand why that's a bad thing. VERY bad.
So, here's what actually happened:
Shatner falls asleep on the bed, while I'm walking new boyfriend out. He gets sick in his sleep, and as he jumps up to make for the bathroom, he barfs and craps on the way in. The puke, obviously, goes on the floor, since there's no barrier to stop it. The poo is contained, until he makes it to the potty, where he removes soiled pants. He sits on potty with soiled behind, and in removing rancid pants, steps in crap in pants, thereby leaving behind li'l footprints. It's kinda like Footprints in the Sand, but not quite as endearing and a WHOLE hell of a lot smellier. After marching around in poo, then "disposing" of pants (he swears he doesn't remember hiding them, but I certainly remember throwing them in the trash), he drunkenly sees the mess he's made and attempts to clean dookie with dry toilet paper, which I'm almost certain when you're drunk LOOKS clean, but in reality is a whole lotta smearing, if nothing else. After I coax him from the bathroom, he comes and climbs into bed, where he digs his feet into my sheets, leaving skidmarks of poo.
Ah, I forgot to mention that when I literally SCARED him awake, by yelling at him to wake up, that I'm changing the sheets, because there's shit in the bed, as he was climbing out of bed, he had crap all up and down both arms and on his chest and face. I said, "If you touch me, I'm pushing you off the balcony." I forced him into the shower (the conversation went something like this..."But, I don't feel good!" *SHOVE* *water on* "There. I made you better.") and cleaned and scoured and disinfected. I'll go ahead and say, I've cleaned up a LOT of adult excrement and yuck in my life...but there's NOTHING like that shit infecting your sanctuary...and it's NOT YOURS.
Okay, so all this brings me to the present.
Yuck.
And, if I SOMEHOW GET PINK-EYE (after washing my hands to the point I can hear the bones of my fingers clacking together as I scrub), I'm killing everyone in this house and possibly on this block, including myself. I've already mentioned the poo stain and have requested that it be removed, but all I got was an "I didn't do that! Is that crap? It's not mine!" Like hell it isn't. If I know anything, it's the color, shade and smell of Shatner's innards. After practicing advanced bathroom techniques for over 30 years, I've managed to always make mine stay IN the potty. I had one instance where I had a premature defecation, and that was when that psycho at my old work took me down like a linebacker. I'll admit, it literally scared the shit out of me. I don't know how that happened, but I remember it, and I remember being not only incredibly shocked, but also extremely mortified. I even forced myself to tell my lawyer, in the hopes that it might strengthen my case. So far, I'm pleading with him to forget I said that and "PLEEZE don't make me say that on the stand, if we can possibly win without my telling that part." But, that will make all of one time in my adult life that I've pooped myself. So, there.
See? Crazy stuff happens all the time. I just don't always have the balls (or the internet) to mention it at the time.
Anyway, when this guy drinks, he's got the rectal control of a 90-year-old. Wait, I take that back. I've done air contrast barium enemas on over-90's, and they've still managed to hold it better than him.
Of course, THIS "shit" is just the tip of the iceberg. Mo' later.
