9:59 a.m. - 2005-01-26
Really, don't read this one. All about ass.
I'm constipated.
Literally and mentally. I have nothing good to write, so I'm going to talk about poo today. I have this deep, unreasonable fear of 'dropping the kids off at the pool' anywhere other than my own home. (isn't that the funniest fucking way of saying going potty? a co-worker told me that one last week!!) I can't go on extended vacations, because once I get there, I know I have three good days of food, fun, and beer before my stomach starts to hurt and I'm ready to go home. I went on a camping trip with all of my co-workers and their spouses a few summers ago. We were in the woods for three whole days with nothing but a shovel with a roll of toilet paper attached to the handle. The first morning there, after breakfast, my husband cheerfully announces to the camp that he's got to survey the terrain or some other equally stupid euphamism for shitting in the woods, grabs the t.p. shrouded shovel and treks off behind some trees to do his business. I'm so jealous. I wish I too, could poop with impunity.
I've always been a reluctant pooper, usually only doing my business once or twice a week. But as I've hit 30, my body has suddenly decided that if I don't go when the moment strikes, it could take another damned WEEK before I have another opportunity.
Maybe I should see about fiber supplements, but only people in their sixties have to take fiber. I personally think my ass is broken, and let's leave it at that.
And there's NO WAY in HELL that I'm going to see my doctor! My doctor's nurse is one of my customers and I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SELL HER INSURANCE AGAIN, if I have to go tell her I've got ass problems.
Fuck that!
