EveryDayAmnesiac
I guess I just wasn't made for these times.
Yep. Definitely needed to start a new thread about this.
So... there I was. Just minding my own business. Raging alcoholically drunk. Had just arrived at work. And was weeping uncontrollably ... at work. Nearly 40 goddamn years old and working for near minimum wage at a fucking laundromat. I've made some poor decisions in my life. I was fired today.
Yeah, so I had woken up early because of passing out early, and then drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol because the existential sadness is in my goddamn bones, and then listened to Sparklehorse. Then I started thinking about my ex-wife who won't even speak to me anymore and how I never got over her and how my life has been a downward spiral of drug abuse and despair and emptiness and self-pity and self-loathing and self-mutilation ever since she divorced me while I was in jail and how we continued dating for a year after she divorced me because ... it was that kind of thing ...
I had also drank some pineapple juice. You gotta be thinking about your health.
But yeah, then I started to feel a certain sort of .... uh ... rumbling in my lower region. A loud gurgling sort of rumbling. A week-old pulled pork taco sort of gurgling rumble. Last night was rearing its ugly head again. Thematically speaking, my past was catching up with me ... pretty much immediately. This was some serious goddamn shit. Not to be taken lightly. Still, no big deal, right?
But then, everything changed. And not for the better. More on that later.
Let me go back a bit. Please.
See, I was wearing my best underpants. Minimal shit stains. Not too many holes. Decent elasticity. Still the same color - light grey - as when I purchased them. Tried and true. Dependable. Really not even that many cum stains. You could set your watch to these boxer briefs. Maybe not the flashiest, but they got the job done. They held my junk, for fuck's sake. Honestly, the back end stains were barely noticeable - barely even perceptible, really. I loved those underpants. Almost as much as I loved the woman who so wisely left me and my underpants so many years ago.
That will be an Oscar-winning metaphor next year. But you, dear reader, got to hear it here first. Lucky devil.
So yeah, I fucking loved her. I sorta knew it then, but not really, but kinda. Now I know for certain. She was the best thing to ever happen to me. And I fucked it up. I, like, TOTALLY fucked it up. I let her slip away. I was a fucking idiot. I loved her. Who I am today is because of her. I might be a fucked up piece of shit, but I'm the fucked up piece of shit that she created, and I'm pretty okay with that.
Doesn't really matter now, I guess. She moved on, and I got lost to the point where no one would even know where to start looking for me. I wouldn't even know what direction to start walking in to find my way back. I wouldn't even know the start if I stumbled over it. Probably best that I just stay lost. At least then people can wonder about what ever happened to me, instead of knowing what actually happened to me. Kinda fucking depressing, when I think about it. So, I drink a lot. Like, you know, every moment I'm not passed out.
You know, I guess I forgot all about the actual sharting. I'm sorry about the headline tease. I guess the sharting wasn't what this whole crazy ride of an ordeal was about. I guess it never was, if you can believe it. I guess what it was really all about .... was me (That line really cracks me up). There's a lot to be learned from that. Well, not really anything at all, but ... hey, whatever. Nevermind.
So, we had a good laugh, didn't we? Some of this shit was pretty funny. And that's what it's all about. Isn't it? Or not. Or something. I haven't figured any of this shit out any better than you have. I don't even know where to fucking begin, other than to tell people about my sharts. So you've got to be doing better than me.
So yeah, also, I totally sharted my fucking pants. Had to throw the fucking pants and man-panties away. Like, they were fucking disgusting. I'd had horrific pulled pork gas all day and then I was going to let one more round squeak through and..... whoops! Felt the liquid filling my underpants. Total squirt-ageddeon. I mean, it was leaking down past my underpants immediately. I ran to the restroom and looked at what I'd done, and then quickly wished I hadn't. It was a fucking nightmare. But I'm okay with it. Because shit happens.
I sharted my pants. And I feel fine. Headline payoff! Damn, that's good writing.
So yeah, I didn't learn anything from the experience. Nothing has changed. I still miss my ex-wife and always will and am still just waiting around to die. I don't want to move on and I don't want to meet someone new. I just wish everything had turned out differently. I feel sad, and I feel lost, and I feel miserable, but that's fine. I don't know how to live life any other way. I just laugh and cry at the same time, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. But even if I knew, what difference would it make?
motg, it's okay that you don't know what to make of this. It's okay. It really is. I promise. I mean, it's not, but.... it is what it is. You won't find a post like this anywhere else on the internet. So ... let's just roll with it, okay? Let's just leave it out there. It's childish and vulgar and sad and sweet and funny. Like all the best things in life. My gift to you. For being there for me a long time ago when no one else was, even though you didn't know it, and even though you don't remember it.
EDA
So... there I was. Just minding my own business. Raging alcoholically drunk. Had just arrived at work. And was weeping uncontrollably ... at work. Nearly 40 goddamn years old and working for near minimum wage at a fucking laundromat. I've made some poor decisions in my life. I was fired today.
Yeah, so I had woken up early because of passing out early, and then drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol because the existential sadness is in my goddamn bones, and then listened to Sparklehorse. Then I started thinking about my ex-wife who won't even speak to me anymore and how I never got over her and how my life has been a downward spiral of drug abuse and despair and emptiness and self-pity and self-loathing and self-mutilation ever since she divorced me while I was in jail and how we continued dating for a year after she divorced me because ... it was that kind of thing ...
I had also drank some pineapple juice. You gotta be thinking about your health.
But yeah, then I started to feel a certain sort of .... uh ... rumbling in my lower region. A loud gurgling sort of rumbling. A week-old pulled pork taco sort of gurgling rumble. Last night was rearing its ugly head again. Thematically speaking, my past was catching up with me ... pretty much immediately. This was some serious goddamn shit. Not to be taken lightly. Still, no big deal, right?
But then, everything changed. And not for the better. More on that later.
Let me go back a bit. Please.
See, I was wearing my best underpants. Minimal shit stains. Not too many holes. Decent elasticity. Still the same color - light grey - as when I purchased them. Tried and true. Dependable. Really not even that many cum stains. You could set your watch to these boxer briefs. Maybe not the flashiest, but they got the job done. They held my junk, for fuck's sake. Honestly, the back end stains were barely noticeable - barely even perceptible, really. I loved those underpants. Almost as much as I loved the woman who so wisely left me and my underpants so many years ago.
That will be an Oscar-winning metaphor next year. But you, dear reader, got to hear it here first. Lucky devil.
So yeah, I fucking loved her. I sorta knew it then, but not really, but kinda. Now I know for certain. She was the best thing to ever happen to me. And I fucked it up. I, like, TOTALLY fucked it up. I let her slip away. I was a fucking idiot. I loved her. Who I am today is because of her. I might be a fucked up piece of shit, but I'm the fucked up piece of shit that she created, and I'm pretty okay with that.
Doesn't really matter now, I guess. She moved on, and I got lost to the point where no one would even know where to start looking for me. I wouldn't even know what direction to start walking in to find my way back. I wouldn't even know the start if I stumbled over it. Probably best that I just stay lost. At least then people can wonder about what ever happened to me, instead of knowing what actually happened to me. Kinda fucking depressing, when I think about it. So, I drink a lot. Like, you know, every moment I'm not passed out.
You know, I guess I forgot all about the actual sharting. I'm sorry about the headline tease. I guess the sharting wasn't what this whole crazy ride of an ordeal was about. I guess it never was, if you can believe it. I guess what it was really all about .... was me (That line really cracks me up). There's a lot to be learned from that. Well, not really anything at all, but ... hey, whatever. Nevermind.
So, we had a good laugh, didn't we? Some of this shit was pretty funny. And that's what it's all about. Isn't it? Or not. Or something. I haven't figured any of this shit out any better than you have. I don't even know where to fucking begin, other than to tell people about my sharts. So you've got to be doing better than me.
So yeah, also, I totally sharted my fucking pants. Had to throw the fucking pants and man-panties away. Like, they were fucking disgusting. I'd had horrific pulled pork gas all day and then I was going to let one more round squeak through and..... whoops! Felt the liquid filling my underpants. Total squirt-ageddeon. I mean, it was leaking down past my underpants immediately. I ran to the restroom and looked at what I'd done, and then quickly wished I hadn't. It was a fucking nightmare. But I'm okay with it. Because shit happens.
I sharted my pants. And I feel fine. Headline payoff! Damn, that's good writing.
So yeah, I didn't learn anything from the experience. Nothing has changed. I still miss my ex-wife and always will and am still just waiting around to die. I don't want to move on and I don't want to meet someone new. I just wish everything had turned out differently. I feel sad, and I feel lost, and I feel miserable, but that's fine. I don't know how to live life any other way. I just laugh and cry at the same time, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. But even if I knew, what difference would it make?
motg, it's okay that you don't know what to make of this. It's okay. It really is. I promise. I mean, it's not, but.... it is what it is. You won't find a post like this anywhere else on the internet. So ... let's just roll with it, okay? Let's just leave it out there. It's childish and vulgar and sad and sweet and funny. Like all the best things in life. My gift to you. For being there for me a long time ago when no one else was, even though you didn't know it, and even though you don't remember it.
EDA
