Dangerous Blasphemy

One morning, a foolish girl named Keena stepped into the shower, agitated that she had already missed one class and might not make it in time for the next. She hadn't given a shout out to the Goddess in a long time, so today she thought she would recite the Gayatri Mantra while scrubbing herself. She didn't quite know the meaning of the prayer despite her shoddy semester of Sanskrit, and her parents had always insisted that its authentic application was limited to young boys' thread ceremonies, contrary to popular modern Hindu thought. Nevertheless, she commenced:

"Om Bhur Bhuvah Svaha
Tat Sa-"

All of a sudden the shower massager she had installed for obvious reasons came crashing down off its socket and collided into the big toe on her right foot.

"FUCK!" She exclaimed in the middle of her incantation, and then calmly re-affixed the apparatus without ensuring its security.

She resumed the chant, rotating her bodily angle in case the Goddess should hear it better from wherever she might be lounging.

"Tat Savitur Varenyam..."

The goddamned device came plummeting down once again, this time on the big toe of her left foot!

"Mothafucker!" She exclaimed, poker-faced, and re-affixed the instrument once again.

Then she remembered she had to practice for an upcoming performance, so she abandoned the Gayatri Mantra and opted for "Let It Bleed." Right after the utterance of "rectal incompetence," the appliance yet again came crashing down, and this time injured her left pinky toe.

Now she will have no choice but to miss the next class and lie horizontally on the futon with a pack of ice melting over her toes.

Springtime Belly

The weather's getting better, and I've got a drawer full of hooch gear that I want to bring out. The problem is that most of it doesn’t fit me quite right, and I'm broke as a mofo. I am not even trying to lose my junk in the trunk, nor do I particularly care to look "toned" and all that shit, but I do need work on these abs. Yet the problem is so circular, because I also require some sun to make this image presentable. Presently, the truth laid bare is that my belly and a five-gallon sack of milk are virtually indistinguishable. I don’t even know where my tits end and the belly begins. All the freaking babies of the world could come take a suckle off my shit. But I don't like babies, and I need an excuse to rid myself of this ability and the concurrent guilt that accompanies its lack of execution. So today, in addition to walking instead of driving, I actually hit up the gym.

The Social Dimensions of Pissing in Law School

Why do people all of a sudden forget how to piss into a toilet when they come to law school?

It's a serious question. I am speaking mainly about the women's restrooms, since those are the ones I generally use. I am sure these grown women are perfectly capable of squatting and aiming their piss directly into the toilet, and then flushing it. But the sanitation problem seems to spiral out of control the more people you have in a space, and the less that people know each other.

I think the reason for the nasty state of affairs is two-fold. First, you trust people less when there's a lot of them, and you don't want to sit on the toilet even if it looks clear because you never know whose germs might be on it. Secondly, you feel less accountable to your fellow woman that's going in next because a) you don't necessarily know or like her, and b) you could say it wasn't you.

I wonder what the threshold is, as far as number, and level of anonymity, to trigger these phenomena. For example, I believe that if you made two strangers share a bathroom in a hotel room for some conference, chances are they would sit on the toilet and flush it and be considerate of each other. I would say that even if you put a larger number of strangers together in a household-type environment, they would probably feel some inexplicable level of trust toward each others' ass germs and sit it out on the same toilet. Perhaps it's the public-ness of the stall set-up that inherently makes people wary. Yes, maybe you just feel more comfortable if you've SEEN the other people that are using the same space, even though that really means nothing. So, the factors contributing to filth are: 1) number of people; 2) level of acquaintance; and 3) architecture.

Back to the pondering on two strangers respecting and trusting each others' pissing space: why can't we always just live like that? Isn't it silly that just because you learn someone's name or have a brief conversation, you then feel a little more trusting or indebted toward them? Imagine if every woman went and sat on the toilet, just like she would at home, then did her thing, then flushed it -- with her hand, not her shoe? And then the next woman did the same, and so on. Why must distrust of the people and the process seep in somewhere? Can we envision a urinary utopia, and give Walden Pond a new meaning?

Spider Wars

I am in a state of war with a spider in my bathroom. I am sure that to an impartial observer, this image would appear a comical one. Me, this big huge human hulk, versus this tiny scampering cretin. But that mofo has got me pretty bad. This is some pretty serious face-off.

First, the baleful arachnid began vertically weaving its way down from the northwest corner of my bathroom, as I was placidly taking a dump. I could only gape in shock and awe, as though it were a human corpse hanging from my ceiling.

Shamefully, I have to this day never been able to catch a spider, so after completing my task, I solemnly eyed the creature as it made its way across the counter, and resolved to vacuum it up when it eventually reached the floor.

Ten minutes later, the brute was on the lower portion of the wall, about a foot away from the floor, so I thought I could gently drop some toilet paper on top of it in the course of its slow crawling, and it would glide to the floor where I could suck it up. I had to drop the paper from afar, lest the beast somehow leap onto my hand from a closer proximity.

The toilet paper did not even touch the animal.

I made several attempts, until there was a nice collection of wasted toilet paper on the floor, and eventually, it just stopped moving, as if to say, "You pathetic asshole. Here, I'll stop moving for you. Could you please get the paper to hit me now, already?"

I couldn't.

Defeated, I sighed and flopped back on the futon, where my goddamn eye caught the sight of yet another spider. It was on a sheet, so I thought I could just drop the sheet to the floor and vacuum it. But then it crawled to the bare futon -- d'oh -- and since it didn't seem like it planned on venturing to the floor, I raised the vacuum, ready to suck it up on the futon itself, when the motherfucker JUMPED, right onto my laptop case on the floor. I was so terrified, trying to prod and turn the case and catch it scampering out. After 10 minutes of futility in this endeavor, I turned around and noted that the asshole was back on the futon!! I pried away all my belongings, and this time, when it got to the top of the futon, I had the wisdom to just blow on the fucking thing, and then it fell to the floor and I was able to vacuum it up!

One down, one more to go. :(

Giving Teamwork a Break

I love taking breaks. At times, I purposely undertake arduous tasks just for the satisfaction of some ensuing momentary relief. It's like taking a dump after a gruelling 18-course meal served by a persistent Aunty.

At other times, I navigate toward activities where there is a required break, but little work required on my part, because I cannot be trusted to do the work properly.

I used to play soccer. For a pretty long time, actually. I was woefully unskilled, though supposedly that didn't matter; the coach would always enthusiastically declare that it wasn't about winning, but about teamwork and having fun. Then while rotating players, the coach would always happen to sit me out for two quarters. That's half the fucking game.

But I didn't mind. I was performing a necessary function in this operation, and I, too, deserved a break. Obviously, "teamwork and having fun," for the dexterous majority, involved certain curtailments of activity for the bumbling minority. If the coach didn't sit me out and I fearfully stood there on the corner of the field, dodging and trembling at any person or ball that came within any reasonable proximity of my being, "the team" would be pissed. I had been placed on the team to fulfill a numerical requirement, but I was the weakest link. It would be unfair to require that others endure my infirmity for the miniscule possibility of my improvement, when, in my absence, so much collaborative triumph was abound. My role was to patiently hover on a dirt mound until I could go claim my Twinkies and Capri Sun at half time. And this, I could handle.

The Artist in Me

I just drew this stupid design on a napkin and now I think I'm bloody Picasso. Now that I walk to school and take hand-notes, my focus will be ever-occupied with efforts to nourish my artistic genius on the edges of my flimsy pink binder.

New Fitness Plan

Due in part to my fondness for chai, and in remaining part to my general gluttony, I piss and shit very frequently. Building upon these rituals, I can benefit greatly from adapting the following policy: I will touch my toes ten times before and after each expulsion. If I follow this exercise regimen strictly, I should be fit as a fiddle within a week.

Veer-Zaara Addendum

My latest song to play on repeat is "Main Yahaan Hoon" from Veer-Zaara. The refrain translates roughly to: "Sweetheart, the distance has dissipated; I am here, everywhere you look." Basically, homechick falls in love and gets all delusional, so the song features the guy popping up and singing in her imagination wherever she goes.

That's fine, but he should appear in more places. In particular, I have a vision for the ending of the song. She should be sitting on the toilet with a constipated expression, like she's really trying to purge him out once and for all. She flushes at the last beat of the fast, intense violin music. But then she looks back at the toilet and is aghast to see one lone turd reverberating with the dude's image superimposed on it, softly crooning "Main yahaan hoon, yahaan hoon, yahaan hoon... yahaaaan..."

Boy, do I have a talent to take a perfectly romantic concept and completely fuck it up.