September 4th, 2006


For Those Who Think Moving To New York Is Going To Change Me

(Two Posts, written last night, transcribed this evening ... still no Internet in my room)

Sooner or later, everyone has one of those moments, one of those frightening and tragic moments: Will One Wipe Be Enough?

It's after midnight before I finish loading up this fucking I-Pod; the whole fucking day has escaped me. And yet, I was there. I was AT the fucking grocery store earlier today! I even left myself a little Mental Reminder this morning: "We're running low on toilet paper; even though you were the last one to buy a roll, don't forget to pick up another while you're away." I take on this additional burden because, as a man and an anal-retentive germaphobe, I use an insane amount of toilet paper. Per-capita-wipe, I probably use more squares than any human alive (I know for a fact it's WAY more than that fucking Charmin Bear who poops at the Toilet Tree).

Now, we're running on 12:30 in the morning and I don't know what's still open (nor do I care to find out at the Killing Hour). It's Get Creative Time. Only 8 or 9 squares of TP on the roll, no napkins or paper towels, no healthy leaves or seashells in sight. I've got a dirty old shirt I mainly use as a dust-rag (which, incidently, I was using this afternoon as I was setting up my new bedroom) sitting on the floor.

But, there are people in the kitchen, which I must pass in order to get to the bathroom. I know how to explain the book, but the T-Shirt? Fortunately, I pass them quickly without anyone noticing (or appearing to notice) the balled-up shirt I'm holding behind the book.

It's go time. I relax my body, sit in anticipation for a moment or two, then unleash the flurry. Now, in case you don't know, there's a way to go about pooping where you don't get a whole lotta shit on your ass. Really, it's not a "Way" so much as a time limit. Poop, sit and rest for five to ten secoonds, wipe, be gone.

I'd pre-rolled my toilet paper by this point (those 8 or 9 squares amounting to what would be about half of my normal 1-ply wipe-roll), so I was ready. I sat for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time (When speed-shitting, you can't just sit there and count; you've gotta use The Force on that fucker! Once you hit that opening where your sphincter is sufficiently comfortable and loose, but before your bowels decide to expell the second, much messier round of unloading, that's when you STRIKE!), put paper to ass, and Lo and Behold, I was clean!

There's no kind of relief, my friends, than that relief of knowing you don't have to use your T-Shirt as an Ass-Rag.

But, I still have the T-Shirt; how will I explain that to those sitting in the kitchen? They're facing me this time, they'll SEE the balled-up shirt, AND they'll know what I've been doing in there because nobody pees for that long AND with a book (why I brought the book, I have no clue; more habit than anything). Solution: Put the dirty dust-rag T-Shirt on UNDERNEATH the shirt I was already wearing. Will they notice the second layer I've accrued since entering the bathroom? Well, that's a risk I was going to have to be willing to take.

And it worked! No embarassing explanations. Twenty minutes later, Jenny came out of the bathroom and said, "We're out of toilet paper, you know."

I said, "I know; I'll pick some up tomorrow."


(8,036 Songs On My I-Pod, 7.16 Gigs to Play Around With Over Time)

I didn't bring much, but what I did represents all facets of my personality pretty well. Thirteen things adorn the walls of my room right now. I'll list them and how they relate to me.

Jimi Hendrix full-size poster & Jimi Hendrix small framed photo - My love of 60s music and Hippie Culture

Pearl Jam Concert Mini Poster // Kinski show mini-poster - My love of seeing live music

Print of an anonymous man staggering to his bullet-riddled death (which I bought at Bumbershoot last year) - My love of fucked up things

Bob Marley full-size poster - My love of smokin' weed

Small picture of Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda, and Jack Nicholson from "Easy Rider" - My love of movies

Photo-collage from my Graduation Party - My love of my friends

Ali Over Liston photo // Signed Terry Mulholland bar ticket - My love of sports

Curt Kobain full-sized poster - My love of Seattle Music

Rainier Beer Goose Picture - My love of beer

My white Christmas lights hanging around the door - My love of sticking it to the Jews every December 25th // My love of keeping anything (or anyone) of color out of sight (except when serving my meals and tending to my fields)

All of these things add up to Steven A. Taylor; and his room is nearing completion. I tipped the big box I shipped all my clothes in, folded each article and stacked them in four respective piles, and carefully stacked them INSIDE the tipped-over box, with the closed end against the wall. I've got quite the dresser there, God I'm proud. On top of the box I have random shit I'd rather not have on the floor. Now, all I need is a small table (talking three to four feet wide, MAX) with which I can use to write so I'm not forever hunched over on the ground or my bed.

I blew AWAY my roommates. Each one entered one at a time and was totally amazed at how I decorated; "It actually looks like a room now!" See, I'm not lying, NONE of my roommates have wall-decorations with which to speak (maybe AH picture here and there, but for the most part, we're talking barren whitewall). I just couldn't handle it, whitewall drives me crazy. It seriously makes me feel like I'm in an asylum or something.

This way now, whenever I'm sitting in my room wondering what in the HELL I'm doing so many thousands of miles from home, I can look around at all the crap hanging up and say to myself, "Oh, there I am. This IS my room."