Sunday, March 17, 2013

Home is Where the Shit Is

"We can't have people over at our place because our neighbors have been complaining about the noise."

"It's Saturday night! It's spring break! We have to do something!"

"But where?"

This is when the heads turned and faced my direction. I knew what was coming next. They were going to suggest going to my place.

"How about we go to your place, Natasha?"

Told you so.


"I mean, we don't have to."

"No, no, it's fine. Yeah yeah. We can go to my house. Sure."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah."

No, no. No.

"Okay cool, let's go to Natasha's then."

"Just to warn you guys - it's messy."

"That's fine."

"And it smells."

"We'll bring Febreze."

"And there's no light in the living room."

"We can bring lights."

"And there's nothing to do."

"We'll bring a ping pong table and play beer pong."

"And you can't use my bathroom."

"Is it broken?"

"No. There's shit everywhere."

"Natasha, we told you, it's fine if it's messy."

"No, I mean literally. Shit."

"Like...shit shit?"

"Like cat shit."

"Cat shit?"


"Do you not have a litter box?"

"I do have a litter box."


"I don't know."

I do know.

"Is it that bad?"


This is where I decide not to go into detail. 

"Alright, well we'll just set up the table and play beer pong until we find somewhere else to go. I'm sure it's not that bad."

This is where I should have gone into detail.

We arrive at my house and I immediately regret the agreement. They had no idea they were about to enter the giant toilet bowl I call my home. My "polite invite" was more of a forceful pushing of all of my friends into a commode full of shit.

"Take a splash!"

This is why none of my friends want to live with me. Maybe if they came over when my place was clean, none of them would think I was never potty-trained. But nooooooooo, people only want to come over when my house is a dump. DUMP, GET IT?! Like taking a dump. Like shit. Like feces. Like turds. Like butt juice. Like a hearty smoothie freshly squeezed from the ass.





They walk up to my front door and I unintentionally go into my sneaky-weirdo-phase.

"DON'T COME THROUGH THAT DOOR! This one, this one! Come through this one!"

I shuffle them all inside. Well, I guess they shuffled themselves inside because I can't shuffle for them, can I? I'd appreciate it if you'd correct me when I say something absurd. Like when I claim that my friends are a deck of cards. (If we were cards, we'd be face cards. Or maybe the aces? I HAVE ADD.)

I start speed-cleaning my room, which really means I just start throwing everything into my closet. Then, of course:

"Is this your bathroom?"




"Do you have...another...bathroom...?"


Then someone else needs something.

"Can I go in there to fill up these cups with water?"


I am a horrible host. Within five minutes, I've denied them entrance into my home, yelled at them, declined their request for a basic necessity for survival, and instigated a potential bladder infection. They probably felt like prisoners. Cranberry juice, anyone?

"Let me just clean it first."

I sneak into the bathroom, opening the door as narrowly as I can and squeezing myself through the crack.


A new shit on the tile.


Underwear on the ground.


A box of tampons in the sink.

(NOT used. I'm gross, but not that gross.)

I pick up the undies, hide the Pearls, and leave the shit there. I never feel like picking up shit, but I certainly don't feel like picking up shit when I'm three beers full. This is what my personal Hell would be: a dirty house that I'm forced to clean. But the more I clean, the messier it becomes. But I can't stop cleaning. Because it's Hell and they can make you do stuff there against your will. Like clean for eternity.

I start to allow people to use the bathroom, which I shouldn't have done. There wasn't just shit on the floor. There was shit in the shower. So much shit that you could barely see the lining of the tub. There was shit on the shower curtain. Shit in the litter box, which was also in the shower. It smelled like some sort of acidic substance that would either melt your nostrils or burn your eyes out. Or just kill you. Among all the entrances and exits into the restroom, I think I heard twelve "Hold your breaths," nine "I don't wanna go in theres," six untranslatable groans of disgust, and one "How do you shower?" - a question that went unanswered.

It took about an hour for my bathroom's title to be completely revoked. It had been deknighted and renamed "The Shithole." Or maybe it was "The Shitter." It also took about an hour for me to become drunk, so I really can't remember. It was probably both. It wasn't long before people started suggesting we go somewhere else. I've learned from the experience to --- you know what? I'm not even going to finish that sentence. You already know what I'm going to say and I don't want to be predictable. I can either clean it or never have people over again. 

I've had to pee for the past four hours. 

Cranberry juice, it is.

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