1. FauxHawk is doing a rotation out of town. No sexing for me.
2. I’m siiiick and have been for weeeeks. I’m also a little whiney, which makes me a pleasure to be around.
3. I’m behind in my school-work because I keep skipping class because I’m siiiick and also lazy.
4. I walked through a slush-puddle on my way to work and my goddamn cheap boots absorbed the water like a sponge. My feet are currently marinating in boot water. I smell like a hooker’s ass.
5. I just ate some really shitty low-calorie vegetable soup. It looked like vomit but I ate it anyway because I haven’t had a vegetable in a while and scurvy probably won’t help my siiiickness. The soup was lumpy and yellow. I don’t understand why the soup would be yellow, as there is no corn in it. The soup was so bad that I had to wash it down with a muffin.
6. Have I mentioned that I’m siiiick? I’m all congested. My sinuses are sealed tighter than…than…oh god, I can’t even think of a good metaphor. DAMN YOU, SIIICK! YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE! This congestion makes me a little crazy and disjointed in the head. Yesterday I drank some neocitron at work, but that might have been a poor life-choice as I acted like a drunk for the rest of the day and may or may not have drooled more than once.
Ok, and now the literal shit. I give you THE SHITTER CHRONICLES:
These things only ever happen to me.
The bathroom in my ramshackle apartment has always been a little sketch. There’s no fan installed, so I get a lot of mildew and the occasional patch of mould. It’s always been manageable with a little extra-strength CLR or Vim OxyGel and some good scrubbin’. I would guess that I’ve lost some significant brain functioning thanks to all the time I’ve spent inhaling bathroom cleaning products in an unventilated area, but so far it hasn’t affected me in any- *minor seizure*-noticeable way.
Last year, I noticed that the patch of mould on my ceiling, above my sink, was growing at an alarming rate. I made the mistake of mentioning this to my grandfather, who immediately hobbled into his giant ’86 Chrysler, puttered down the 401 at 70 km/hr with his 4-way blinkers on, and showed up at my doorstep holding an assortment of products he had purchased at the nearest hardware store. He also showed up with two jars of home-made jam, which I put in the freezer along with the 75 jars of jam that have been sitting there since my grandfather decided jam-making would be his latest hobby. Sometimes I try to give the jars of jam away to friends, but it turns out that people under the age of 70 aren’t huge fans of jam. Except for The Hippie, who squeals with jam-related glee every time my grandfather visits.
After examining my ceiling for 30-40 minutes and muttering things like:
“Hmm…yes…you do indeed have a mould problem.”
“I had a mould problem in my bathroom once, in ’78. I fixed it myself. There’s no reason a person can’t fix a mould problem when the local hardware stores carry all the appropriate tools.”
“I know just what to do, here.”
My Grandfather opened a can of spray paint, pointed it up, and proceeded to destroy everything in my bathroom. To be fair, he did cover up the mould quite nicely. He just also covered the toilet, the sink, my shower curtain, my towels, his glasses, and the cat in a light layer of white paint.
I then was able to forget about the mould for a year.
THE SHITTER CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 2
The bitch was back. Black mould was crawling across my ceiling at an alarming pace, and flecks of it were flaking onto me anytime I stood under the sink. I can’t wait to see what type of mysterious and strange cancer I will grow when I’m 50 as a result of that. My bets are on ass cancer.
I ignored the mould for a few months. Then the flaking became more persistent, so I told my landlord. He was too busy employing ex-cons to renovate the other rental units to care, so the mould continued to grow, and flake, and grow some more. I made the mistake of mentioning this to my mother, who told my grandfather, who immediately hobbled to his ’86 Chrysler, puttered down the 401 at 70 km/hr with his 4-way blinkers on, and showed up at my doorstep holding an assortment of products he had purchased at the nearest hardware store. He also showed up with 2 jars of jam, which I put in the freezer.
My grandfather clucked and tsk’d at my ceiling for about 30 minutes, and then whipped out his can of trusty spray paint. I prepared to run for cover with the cat tucked under my arm, but my grandfather hesitated, put down the can, and asked for a broom.
Bobba: Peach, I think we’ll need to brush away some of those flecks before we spray again.
ThePeach: Ok. Thanks for bringing more jam, by the way.
Bobba: Well! I know how much my girl loves jam! Now, bring me a broom!
Ok. I brought him a broom. My grandfather started feebly swiping the mouldy ceiling and flecks of mould and drek flurried to the floor. I tried not to inhale anything, lest I accelerate the growth of my future ass-cancer. And then, this happened:
Bobba: Hmmm *scratches fleck-covered head*…this one fleck up here doesn’t seem to want to come down. I’ll just give it a little poke with the handle of the broom.
ThePeach: Um, I don’t know if that’s a great ide-
Bobba: *rams broom handle into ceiling with surprising elderly strength and agility*
Well, of course the handle ripped right through the mouldy ceiling and a turd of black mould oozed through the giant hole, hitting the bathroom floor with a sickening splat. My bathroom ceiling had just taken a dump onto my floor. It pinched a loaf. Onto my floor.
My grandfather was so upset that I let him change a light-bulb in my bedroom just so he would feel useful again. Then he drove back home to bottle some more jam for his next visit.
The gaping hole in my bathroom ceiling continued to shit mould/sludge/death all over my bathroom. The next morning I told my landlord, and he promised to get “a guy” in to look at the problem “real soon”.
THE SHITTER CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 3
6 weeks had passed. My landlord had still done nothing. The giant anus in my ceiling was continuing to shit mould all over my bathroom. FauxHawk had bravely duct-taped some plastic over the hole, but the humidity in my fan-less bathroom peeled the tape back in about 36 hours. I was getting desperate.
I once again pleaded and begged with my landlord to do something. He said he’d have “a guy” in “real soon” to take a look at it. I moaned with frustration into my pillow that night, and every night for the next 2 weeks. And then, one fateful morning, there was a knock on my door at 7am.
I ignored it. The knocking got more persistent. Milo jumped off the bed and started pacing beside the door, grunting quietly with his ears slicked back. I made my way to the door and opened it. Milo bolted into the hallway and sprinted up all four flights of stairs, where he would wait for me to trundle my way to the top before he would sprint back down the stairs and into the apartment, where he would knock over a lamp in his excitement at the brief taste of freedom. Little bastard.
But back to the door. On the other side were my landlord and a smelly guy in overalls.
Landlord: We’re going to fix your ceiling now.
Landlord: Yep, get out.
ThePeach: Oh…well…it’s 7am…and I need to shower and stuff, for work…and stuff.
Landlord: Oh. I’ll be back in an hour. Then get out.
I did get out. And when I came back home, 8 hours later, I had no bathroom ceiling.
THE SHITTER CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 4
It would appear that my landlord and the “the guy” had ripped out my entire bathroom ceiling, but then given up and not actually fixed anything. So, now instead of a mouldy anus dumping rotted drywall onto my floor, I had a mass of rotted pipes puking buckets of smelly water onto my bathroom floor. I missed the anus.
Also, now that I no longer had a ceiling, my bathroom channeled the icy winds of hell into my apartment. It was a bleak time.
Several times each day a gush of smelly water would fall from one of the pipes and drench my bathroom. Going in there became a game of Russian roulette. Did I dare to use the crapper? Would it be worth the gamble of possibly being drenched in pipe-water? I somehow managed never to be caught in a down-pour, which is proof enough that there is a God. I didn’t trust Milo’s timing, so I moved his litterbox into the hallway and my entire apartment quickly filled with the smell of kitten-ass. I was living in a barn.
I then noticed something disturbing. The gush of water onto my floor corresponded directly with the flush of the toilet in the apartment above me. OH HOLY JESUS. My bathroom had been leaking DIRTY TOILET WATER onto me for the past year. This was the point when I lost my shit. Pun intended.
I harassed my landlord daily, to no result. I took pictures of the bathroom, documented everything, and emailed it to the city bylaw office. I took 2-minute showers and cried. I brushed my teeth over the kitchen sink and cried. I called my grandpa and cried. I ate the jam he sent me and cried.
And then, one day I came home from work and had a ceiling again! Could it be true??! Were the toilet-toxins giving me hallucinations??
I HAD A CEILING. THE LANDLORD FIXED IT. PRAISE BE TO JEBUS.
THE SHITTER CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 5
A happy time. A time of dancing and singing. A time of 20 minute showers. A time of rolling around in giddiness on my (disinfected) bathroom floor. A time of re-training the cat where to shit. A time of happily cleaning cat-shit off my hallway floor.
A time that was all too short.
THE SHITTER CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 6
Last Sunday I woke up in the middle of the night to pee. As I was sitting in the dark, I heard a drip. I heard it again. I looked down. Nope, not my pee. I looked outside my bathroom window. Maybe some icicles were melting. I went back to bed and slept in an innocent, naïve state of peace.
I woke up with my alarm. I peed again. I heard a drip. I heard it again. I assumed that it was the icicles. I washed my hands. Something hit my head. Something hit it again.
NOOOOO MOTHERFUCK SHIT BALLS MUFFINS TREADMILL ALLAH WHY???!!!!!!!!
The drip was coming from my bathroom ceiling. I jumped in the shower and scrubbed my head like I had just come in contact with cholera. Which, you know, I probably had. I dressed myself and stormed into my landlord’s office. I informed him that the ceiling was leaking again. He informed me that he would get “a guy” to come look at it “real soon”. This has yet to happen.
When I got home from work that day, my bathroom was destroyed. The drip had quickly turned into a constant stream, and the water had quickly turned into sewage. I’m not kidding: my walls were brown. My sink was brown. My new hand-towels were brown. Oh. Holy. Jesus. I moved the cat’s litter into the hallway. My house quickly filled with the smell of kitten ass. I tried to rescue my toothbrush from the medicine cabinet above the sink this morning. A drip landed in my FUCKING EYE. I now have hepatitis.
I have resumed my old habits of brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink and sobbing into my pillow. I’m still waiting for “a guy” to show up.
On the bright side, my apartment insurance is going to pay for me to stay in a hotel.
On the dark side, my life is covered in shit.
I'm going to steal a trademark of AsianCymbals and end this post with a shit-inspired haiku:
On this day of love
Feces dripped into my eye.
That seems about right.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Bitches.