I wake up (1) with my cat’s asshole (2) on my forehead (3). Again (4). My 6:30 a.m. alarm (5) has yet to go off, but that doesn’t matter as I am now “up and at ‘em!” (6) You must be wondering what in the Gerd-Lerdy’s name could be the “em” to her “getting at”? Allow me to humbly scream the ways.
I clean the 7-pound shit that my 5.6-pound dog, Carl, hath deposited during my sweet slumber the previous night (7). My gut (8) begins its fun little game that is similar to Russian Roulette, but just replace the loaded gun with an early morning, somewhat traumatizing bout of IBS (9).
During or shortly thereafter, I scroll through TikTok for roughly 37 minutes (10). A few possible outcomes of this particular activity: I shed tears of joy or sadness, both being a direct result of my TikTok algorithm (11) consistently displaying content related to animals being rescued or interspecies friendships. I garner enough inspiration (12) to consider a near-future (13) brainstorming session where I will come up with a plan for my own heart-melting content. (Please note: This is merely a thought of a plan (14) to later create another plan (15)). I watch a TikTok creator’s in-depth breakdown of Britney Spears’ most recent Instagram (16) post and proceed to go down a very strange and particular rabbit hole of Britney conspiracy theories (17). I decide on a major life change that will not be executed, ever (18). The aforementioned outcomes are in no particular order (19).
I wash my hands and check-in with my animals using a mix of gibberish and half-sentences (20). My favorite local morning news program is on my television. I have a quick gander and consider writing an email (21) to the program director about their new, nails-to-chalkboard awful field reporter who is ruining the near perfect dynamic of the other morning news anchors that I love almost as much as my own flesh (22) and blood. SPOILER ALERT (23): I will send no such email.
I take Carl out for a walk (24). Within minutes, he drops a significantly smaller shat (25) than the one he moved mere hours before. I’ve run out of poop bags (26). I spot my strange neighbor (27) a block away, but it is already too late to pretend I didn’t (28). They manage to either sprint (29) or teleport over to me, the dog and his unbagged doo-doo nugget (30). As the embodiment of the State Farm slogan slides into my personal bubble (31), I am immediately reminded of the fact that I do not have a bra on (32). My neighbor immediately takes a hard stare (33) to my floppy morning tits (34). We engaged in what would be the 458th conversation (35) about techniques in dog training that I’ll never utilize (36). And of course the exchange would not be complete without the brief yet soul-sucking round of 21 Questions (37) pertaining to my other dog and the reasons why she doesn’t live with me anymore (38).
Do I tell them the honest truth (39)? Do they want to know? Can they tell I’m dying inside (40) and simply want the details in order to satisfy their inner sadist (41)? Do I fucking despise any and all questions related to my current status of “Everything Fucking Sucks!” (42)? Do I have enough time to unpack all of this without a bra (43) on?
I walk back into my home and directly onto a dollop of vomit (44) from the cat who ate the dog’s food. You think coffee wakes you up? Try an invigorating cup of fresh dry heaving (45) with 12 Lysol wipes in your palm. I ask Alexa (46) what the time is; this will be the seventh time I ask BezoBot (47) this question and it most definitely will not be the last, as I immediately forget (48) the answer. I receive a news (49) alert about Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly (50), and much like all the previous alerts that reference this couple (51), I did not consent to acquiring this information and I feel personally victimized (52).
I look out the window to see the garbage truck pass by my home; I have forgotten to take my bin out to the curb (53), thus committing the heinous act known as the “Adult Fail” (54) for the third week in a row (55). I ask Alexa what the time is again (56). I am now running (57) behind the “productive” schedule (58) I concocted the night before (59) when I was buzzed on whiskey. I am now buzzing with anxiety (60).
I take a wet wipe to the armpits (61) and douse myself with an eau de toilette that I bought with a credit card (62) that I am far from paying off (63). I gather my work bags (yes, you read that correctly. Two bags (64) and zero chance of making things easier by consolidating) and ask Alexa (65) “What time is it?” while praying that my stomach (66) remains in “chill-mode” the rest of the day. I bid all of my pets adieu, individually (67), and walk out my front door hardly ready (68) to take on whatever shitshow the universe (69) has in store for me today. I am late for work (70).
The preceding piece is intended to be part of an upcoming series. More importantly… This piece is a tribute and/or shameless rip-off of an essay written by John Waters from his book “Crackpot: The Obsessions of John Waters.” Enjoy and thank you, Mr. Waters.
