Tag Archives: toilet

Bonds

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I’ve been a bit absent, mainly because I had another endometriosis clean out which resulted in a couple of post-op issues. One of them, somewhat ironically given the tale I am about to tell you, was the large bruise I grew on my tummy. The problem with the excess skin I have hanging on my tummy is that, well, it’s heavy. The weight of it resulted in a pooling of blood that created a bruise that resembled the poo emoji.

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Right there, the poo emoji.

A week later, the bruising is starting to subside.

However, I wasn’t enjoying being sat on my bottom. I needed to return to some form of normal. So this week, I returned to the gym. No weights, nothing strenuous, just some walking on the treadmill. Restarting normal routines and that kind of thing. It went fine on Monday.

On Wednesday, on the way to the gym, my tummy was feeling a bit sore and crampy. I didn’t say anything in case it resulted in beloved turning the car around, but I should have spoken up, I should have I should have I should have.

But alas, I did not.

I got on my treadmill and after 10 minutes, I realised that the cramping was a signal that there was an issue that needed to be dealt with. I told beloved I’d be back in a tick. I left my phone and everything on the treadmill, and wandered across the gym to the bathrooms. And as I walked in, I was thinking about other things, more important things, more essential things, instead of checking to make sure that the stall I was about to plonk myself down in had toilet paper.

And it did not.

I will spare you the details of my bathroom activities, but the lack of toilet paper presented a significant and serious issue.

I was perched upon a porcelain throne. I was surrounded by silence. My thoughts were racing through my head. What do I do?

I poked at the toilet paper dispenser, praying for a square or a scrap or a whisper of hope.

Nothing.

I should have brought my phone and I should have said something when my tummy was sore in the car, I should have I should have I should have.

But I did not.

I considered my options.

They were not particularly generous.

I needed to keep my tights on, for the sake of decency. Same with my shirt. And the two bras. I considered my remaining options.

While things were already quite dire, I felt it would be indecent to use my undies as toilet paper. What if I decided to do squats and my tights were not squat proof?

This left me with two options.

Left sock, or right sock.

I wear Bonds socks. They come up high enough to prevent blisters, they have a soft sole, and when I mop the floors I can leave BONDS prints all over the floor.

In around 1985, there was an ad on TV for Bonds. It went like this:

As I sat there on the loo, left with a terrible decision to make, I found myself humming the ad. I sighed, resigned to the reality I was faced with. And slowly, I removed my right sock.

When I left the bathroom, I must have had guilt and shame written all over my face. As I walked out, I bumped into a friend who asked me what I was doing. I told her I’d gone to the loo, and mentioned that there was no toilet paper.

She asked me how I had gotten myself out of that particular pickle.

Again, I signed. And I looked down at my feet, sadly. Left foot snug in a Bonds sock. Right foot, naked inside my shoe.

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She laughed and told me I had to blog about this.

And so I have.

Have you ever had this happen to you? What would you have done in my situation?

Way Free

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Before the F3 became the M1, it was known as the F3. However what I liked best about this particular stretch of freeway was the way it was signposted. I’d be returning home after spending time with the family, and painted onto Pennant Hills Road were the words WAY FREE.

ImageIn actual fact, they probably said “FREE WAY” but I consistently read it as WAY FREE. Because over time, the F3 (now the M1) came to represent to me the way free. The way free from family squabbles, or the stress of expectation. The way free from having to force myself back into the role of the daughter or the sister. It wasn’t that these were bad roles – not at all. Just that since I’d lived in Newcastle, I’d grown up. I’d changed. So after spending time as a personality yogi-master, the writing on Pennant Hills Road indeed signaled to me the WAY FREE. 

Yesterday was no exception. My beloved and I were making our way home. My sister and I had exchanged words, one of which was “atrocious”, which I didn’t cope well with. My beloved was driving, I was doing a mixture of sulking, crying and being angry, and was becoming increasingly aware of my bladder.

As we approached the twin servos on the F3 (yes, yes, M1), I let my beloved know I needed her to stop. We pulled in, I ducked into the loo, and the floodgates opened.

It was as I finished up that I realised there was no toilet paper in the stall I was in.

I checked my pockets. I had a receipt – not absorbent – and a small ball of fluff – not big enough. I looked at the stall from every angle – not a scrap of toilet paper to be seen.

Due to a packing miscalculation, I had no undies on, so the questionable drip-dry wasn’t an option.

Then my eyes fell on my right hand.

ImageNow, if you look closely, you can see that under the splint is a bandage. It’s actually more like a fingerless glove. I have to wear it under the splint so that I don’t get blisters or sweaty. As I gazed at my hand and wrist, I remembered the time that my hand therapist dedicated to crafting these little glove-type things. She made me two of them.

Now I only have one.

The other is frolicking in the sewage system at the twin servos on the F3 (M1).

Lucky I had two.

 

The fear of a public urinal

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Have you ever had that feeling when you know something is kind of not quite right, but you press on regardless? Even though your entire being is screaming at you to reassess, think it through, look around, sniff, listen, whatever!!! Just make this mistake stop!

Granted, that could just be my subconscious. I tend to put it through a hell of a lot on a fairly regular basis. I think it has almost given up on trying to make me think things through, and now just entertains itself by learning new accents to shout warnings at me in. My favorite has been Gaelic, but the Russian one is starting to sound promising.

Anyway anyway, I digress.

I had business of a delicate nature to tend to earlier today, and I quickly found the place I needed:

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Apparently the one in the cape represents me.

So I’m going about my business when I hear a deep voice. A male voice. Immediately, I came to the only plausible conclusion: I am in the wrong toilet, and someone wants to compare penis sizes with me.

Now, this is where I got clever.

I looked around the stall I was in. I knew that if there was one of those unmentionable bins of stench, terror and necessity, I was most definitely in the female toilet.

There was no such bin.

There was no such bin!

I was in the male toilet, I had just done a wee sitting down, and was now frozen to the seat. How the hell do I get out of this one? How??

My first solution was to pretend to be male.

I looked around for something to stuff into the front of my shorts, but decided this would not work. There was nothing easily accessible that would be big enough. After all, if I was going to pretend to be a male, I was going to be damn well hung.

This left only one solution.

Wait until it was relatively quiet, then run. Run like the wind, accept that I would not be able to wash my hands because this was clearly a matter of life and death. Speed would be of the essence.

I stood. Braced myself. Listened carefully. My heart started to beat faster. I texted my friend to let her know what had happened. I waited, jigging nervously. And then, I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a tampon being opened.

Oh my god, another woman has it wrong! Clearly these toilets are not signposted clearly. Then I heard two more voices: school kids, female, bitching about still having two days of school left. Could it be? Are we all victims of the same useless signage? Or am I quite possibly in the correct toilet? But what about that male voice I heard? Should I still try and make myself a penis? Where is the unspeakable bin of terror and stench?

Carefully, I turned the lock. Stepped out, and washed my hands. There were girls in here! Females!

But the voice? My magnificent penis ideas?

I darted out of the room, and heard it.

The male voice. It was reading announcements about trains and delays and departures.

Bloody hell.

The bland traveller

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I’m not going to even try to convince you that I travel well. I am not portable, I struggle to remember that clothes can be washed, and I don’t trust public toilets. Because of this, I confess to being the very opposite of a seasoned traveller.

Allow me to introduce you to the bland traveller:

Me.

I am the bland traveler. I am not seasoned. I find car trips exciting, even when the destination is the garage. So to jump on a train for three hours, then a plane for five, then a car for two more – holy crap. I am sure to be a pro by the return trip. A pro, but probably not seasoned.

I had some dramas on the way to my destination. I think the fact that I am seeing them as issues only serves to prove my blandness as a traveller. See what you think:

1. Somewhere between zipping it up and putting it on the scales at the hospital, my case had gained three kilograms. I’m assuming it had raided vending machines when I changed to the Airport line. This is the only reasonable explanation, because the bits I had forgotten and jammed in at the last minutes surely didn’t weigh enough to put me slightly over my baggage limit.

2. Sharing. I don’t like to share with strangers. I don’t want someone to sit next to me. What if they have a smell? I discovered that shoving my case in the leg area of the seat next to me proved enough of a deterrent to put most people off. Talking to my suitcase convinced the stubborn few that looked like they might attempt to ask me to move.

3. Impulse yelling isn’t generally smiled upon. My beloved and I play a game called Windmill. The rules are simple. When you see a windmill you yell out WINDMILL! It,s pretty easy, but exceptionally competitive. Sadly, unfortunately, terribly… I spotted a windmill out the window on the train. Enough said.

4. There was a toilet on the train. A toilet! Who can’t hold a wee for a few hours? What has happened to humanity that we can’t just hold it anymore? Why are there always men pissing on the sides of the road? OK that’s an aside, but it’s true. Sometimes driving on the freeway, the amount of males peeing on the side of the road – it’s like the apocalypse.

5. I didn’t use the toilet on the train, but by the time I got to the airport I was busting. Floating back teeth and everything. I checked my case and found a toilet. Here is the scary bit. The toilet flushed all by itself. I could have been sent through to Sydney Harbour at a million kilometers an hour. I could have been injured. I could have gotten a very wet bottom. I could have experienced a non-consensual colonic irrigation massage!

6. Is it any wonder, therefore, that I was too scared to wee on the plan? What if it flushed while I was sitting there and my bum was sucked out the exit hole? What if my arse ended up performing a nationwide brown eye? What I ended up with a massive hickey on my butt from the suction? And even worse… What if I wound up with a prolapse?

7. Boredom. I got bored very early in the trip, which resulted in all of the above thought processes.

So, friends, suffice it to say I am not a seasoned traveller. I enjoy mischief too much to be in a confined space for an extended amount of time. Maybe it’s just not for me. Which I reminds me of something.

My beloved often recommends long distance train driving as a potential career option for lots of different people. Her daughter, her best mate, her ex husband – lots of different people… But not me. Never me.

I think there’s a certain wisdom in that.

The Pits

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You know, in writing that title, I can feel my own mind boggling with the vast array of inappropriate content I could be about to spew forth. But hey, isn’t that why you are here?

I had Cubs last night, and we had an awesome time, building a glow-in-the-dark bowling alley:

ImageWe’ve had a troubling sequence of events, involving copious amounts of dead bees in the Hall. Last night was the second night I’ve walked into the Hall to discover the dead bees, so the little critters were well and truly on my mind.

In the car on the way home, I was chatting to the Cub I was driving home when I felt it: a strange little tickle in the front crotch region of my shorts. This wasn’t a pleasant tickle. It was scratchy. Full of sharply barbed legs. Scary. I did what anyone would do: pulled over and danced like an idiot in the headlights, shaking my shorts and resisting the urge to strip off. Child protection, you know.

I calmly got back into the car to discover the Cub hadn’t batted an eyelid. This was apparently normal behaviour from her fearless leader.

When I arrived home, my flatmate had her twin sister visiting from Melbourne. These girls, when together, are very un-twinny – none of that ESP stuff or shared pain (which is good, given sister-twin has four children). However, they both have an unreasonable love of “real camping”.

Real camping. No running water. No electricity. No toilets. No showers. Instead, you get a shovel, a river to splash in, and the lack of lighting hides your layers of filth that have accumulated.

A shovel, you ask? That is to DIG A HOLE AND POO IN IT!

How barbaric. This does not sound like fun to me. What happens if you are walking along and discover poorly covered deposits? If there is anything worse than treading in dog poo, this has to be it. And if they aren’t crapping in holes, flatmate and sister-twin are hovering their nether regions over long drop toilets, or pit toilets. Totally hygienic! They don’t smell! It’s just like a normal toilet! These words are meant to reassure me.

Sister-twin shared a story that reaffirmed for me that camping is best done in hotels.

She had recently gone on a camping trip with a friend, and hearing the call of nature, picked up her shovel and headed out into the wild. Upon burying her business, she returned to camp, bragging about the perfect job she had done in covering her job. Her friend then heard a similar song, took his own shovel (I’m assuming they had their own shovels, because sharing a shovel is beyond my comprehension), and headed out.

He returned.

In digging his own poo hole in what looked like the perfect spot, he had made a discovery.

Let’s just say it wasn’t gold.

I’m sure that camping is a beautiful way to dwell in nature.

But when the risk of digging up human poo is a reality; when a long drop toilet smells of a thousand earlier bowels; when a river becomes a bath tub – I cannot cope.

Are you a camper?

If Cassie Buchanan is, she can wash her dog afterwards thanks to the fine folk at PETQuarters!

The Port-a-Loo of Delight and Amusement

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There’s not much that says love like having a sleep over at your partner’s place when she’s just taken delivery of a port-a-loo. Particularly when there is an already-established fear of these plastic crocodile pits of terror.

I have a somewhat unfair reputation for breaking toilet systems.

I am holding firm to this being unfair, and also state that it is mere coincidence that I watched my beloved’s toilet fill with water after I flushed it. I watched, fascinated, not once considering the long-term implications of killing another porcelain friend. The water rose, and I admit, my only concern was that my puppy would try to “clean” it for me if it overflowed.

To save myself the blame worry, I shut the lid, shut the door and promptly forgot about it.

The next day, things weren’t quite so easy.

Teenage boy informs us that the toilet is stuffed.

Beloved asks for further information.

Teenage boy tells us that it isn’t flushing.

The toilet isn’t, but the heat on my cheeks suggests that I might be.

Beloved goes to the bathroom, and rants at the porcelain member of our rainbow family. Calls the landlord. Blames the landlord.

I’m in the clear.

Fast forward 24 hours, skip over the visit from the Water Board, and a man with a truck delivers a port-a-loo. The plan was that he would position it in the backyard.

The carport thwarted that idea.

Instead, he popped it by the front door.

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I laughed and giggled and hooted and squeaked and made all kinds of jokes about the port-a-loo.

Then I realised: If I was going to be staying there, I’d be using it.

It’s when you feel uneasy about shitting in the front yard that you realise you still have some boundaries left.

That night, I held on longer than anyone with a persistent cough should ever hold on. I valued my safety and pride more than I valued my kidneys and underwear.

I admit it: I had a shower before bed, purely to do a wee.

By the light of day though, things were less confronting.

Plus my bladder was at capacity once again.

There was no time for a shower.

Port-a-loo time.

I almost ran to the front yard. Flung open the door. Checked for crocodiles and frogs. Cared little for the neighbours.

Released a torrent that was akin to a racehorse on Cup Day.

While I was seated there, I observed my surroundings. I saw this sign:

ImageYes, seriously! Who the actual FUCK would cook in a toilet?

Then I realised that the sign was possibly referring to the water.

Finished my wee.

Washed my hands.

Went inside.

And waited.

My beloved is a shift worker. On this particular morning, she had finished at around 4am. In my haste to get to the loo, I *may* have accidentally left the bedroom door open. And I *may* have then let the dogs in.

Who ran into the bedroom and woke her up.

There are things in life you can count on: death, taxes, and that morning wee.

My beloved smiled and greeted me with the news that the plumbing had been repaired. We could now use the inside toilet.

It is this news that prompted me to do this. Honestly.

I convinced her to use the port-a-loo.

Out she went.

And I hid.

And waited.

And giggled.

And waited.

Heard the flush.

While nothing says love like having a sleep over at your partner’s place when she has taken delivery of a port-a-loo, nothing says unconditional love like the fact that she agreed to let me post this picture here:

ImageSometimes, even the darkest situations can end with a smile.

And that, my friends, is the story of the time my beloved had to hire a port-a-loo.

What I have learned from my new year goal…

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I don’t do resolutions. They seem to be a good way to start the year off afraid to fail. So, I don’t make resolutions.

I set goals.

Last night, my goal was simple: to pass a firm stool.

So, here is my new year post, based upon what I have learned from this goal, just 16 hours in to 2013.

1. Be reasonably confident that goals are attainable. Given the amount of gastro-stop I had consumed, it would be logical to assume that this goal would be achieved for the entire duration of 2013 – 2013, and beyond. In fact, I had been quietly fearful that the solidity of the impending stool would provide ample texture for the next Mayan calendar. But like all things calendar-based, confident goal setting was dashed.

2. Set goals based on fact, not farts. If you read my earlier post, you will understand what I mean when I say that this morning, I got happy. Yes! I greeted the day with a slightly muted dry fart. The crispness made me smile. It awoke my beloved, who grinned and said “it’s so nice to hear that”. While it concerns me slightly that the morning fart has become somewhat of a staple event, I can’t help but feel touched about the appreciation this little ritual has garnered. In fact, the morning fart may be the ideal timepiece for the next end-of-the-world calendar. Surely, my new year goal was in reach.

3. Sometimes, a false start belies a successful ending. When setting goals, if it appears that the goal may not be reached, it’s OK not to measure your annual potential for success based upon the immediate achievement of the goal. The day got worse. Be it the humidity or the amount of water I’ve cameled away, the day got worse.

4. If a goal is an imperative ingredient for a good day, change the goal. I got cocky. I admit it. Got in the car. Travelled. Arrived at a destination. I was halfway through the supermarket when the emotional horror grasped me: like the impact of a shark siren, my heart dropped, my arms dumped every item I was clutching and I ran before my bowels followed suit.

5. If you are not reaching your goal, reflect on other goals that you have successfully mastered. While I was perched on the disabled toilet (the nearest toilet I could find), I used the moments to contemplate things that I had achieved. I found out, for example, statistics will tell us that the consistently cleanest public toilet is the first on the left. I can make bread. I can clap my feet very loudly. There are things I can do. And while my body was creating noises that were half walrus and half water buffalo, I was able to rise above the fact that I was yet to achieve my goal for 2013.

In short, I now have a new goal. My goal for 2013 is to find out how to build a good immune system. My goal is to let stress out, instead of bottling it up and burying it down deep where it does nobody any harm.

My goal is also to buy one Christmas present a week. I quietly think this is brilliant – it means I’m going to have an awesome stash of pressies for Christmas 2013. It’s only 364 days away, after all.

posted from the befuddled mind of Kel…

Can you hack it?

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I was never, ever aware that blowing your nose in the shower is a widely accepted practice. In fact, I am wondering if I am the only person who finds the practice gross. I’ll be casually minding my own business, in the garden or within a 5 km distance when I hear it: the strangled duck type sounds emanating from what could only be a very unwell sinus cavity.

The toots and snorts accompany most showers that I overhear. At first I thought there was a hidden bathtub that was being emptied, such is the duration and tone quality of the notes that surface from the steam.

You have to understand that until I left home, I had never heard someone doing this. And when I disclosed the horror of what I was experiencing, no one seemed bothered by it. They thought it was normal.

It appeared it was me alone who was troubled by the shower nose blow.

I guess it is the visual I get of having a lovely shower after a nose blower, and looking down to find the snot monster from planet of the drain biting at my toes. Or panicking that the water will get a little too deep, and I will be drying my feet and discover strands of shower nose blowing byproducts draped over them.

It is at this point that I must confess: I tried it. Just once. To see what the fuss was about.

Let me begin by saying it is the most unnatural process known to humankind. Bare hands are not suitable substitutes for tissues. Yes, being in the shower loosened up all manner of sputum and phlegm. But did I really want to stand in it? Did I really want to hold it? Did I really want to risk it landing on me? What if it fell into the conditioner and I rubbed it into my hair? What if it actually made my hair look good?

The convenience of the drain is not reason enough for me to try this again.

I just can’t get past the mental images of leaving the shower with snot seaweed burrowing into my pores.

Besides, isn’t it just totally gross? Isn’t it a little bit rude, when you are going to be sharing that shower with other users?

Some people have no social decorum. 

Please, excuse me now. I have to flush before I publish this blog.

 

 

 

 

 

Confession.

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This blog is more of a confession than anything else. A confession I felt best given with the safety of distance between myself and the person receiving the confession.

I have discussed before my issues about the face washer. Useless bits of towel.

Today, I discovered a use for them.

Allow me to present this use in my best TV voice over tones…

“Introducing! Face washer extreme! You’ve had them in your cupboards for years and wondered what to do with them, right? With the aid warm water and a mild soap, turn those face washers into emergency showers. You can take your emergency shower anywhere! Outside! Inside! On the toilet!”

Now, this is where the confession starts.

I was in a rush.

A hurry, of grand final proportions.

With not much time, a full bladder and a bit of a pong about me, I multi tasked.

I used a face washer. Did my wee.

And dropped the face washer, as habit would have it, straight into the full toilet.

Now, I couldn’t flush it.

I couldn’t bin it, as there were no liners in the bins in the bathroom.

I saw only one option: get it into the washing machine.

But it had been in the toilet. A toilet that still had my wee in it. The obvious implement was the toilet brush.

This was not a fishing trip I took lightly. And let me remind you, that if you had simply replaced the liner in the bin, I would not have needed to resort to this.

I scooped the face washer. Flushed the toilet. Dumped the washer into the washing machine. Covered the evidence with washing.

Then promptly forgot to turn on the machine.

I am sorry I committed such atrocities.

But it was grand final and I had to get to the celebration.

Besides. How hard is it to change a bin liner?

posted from the befuddled mind of Kel…

Matter.

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Things are not always roses and happiness, unless of course you are a florist who LOVES their job. Or perhaps a rose farmer. Or a gardener with a passion for roses.

But I digress.

I’ve been reflecting on the week that was. This time last week, life was FRANTIC. Every cent I had had been thrown into the book launch. Which was awesome, by the way. I’m waiting for the photos from the photographer before I go into too much detail.

It was also this time last week that last minute stuff was still weighing me down. The issues of kids at the launch, which I had thought I’d been clear on, but apparently hadn’t. The issues around having enough catering there, on a ridiculous budget. The issues around being everything I can be for everyone around me. The issue of guilt, when I realise I have dropped the ball. The further issue of guilt, when I get told that my version of dropping the ball is probably just normal life for everyone else. The still further issue of guilt when I realise that I still have stupid expectations of myself.

In the last week, I’ve let down a dear friend (no, not you, unless it is you, in which case, yes I know I fucked up and I apologised, but I would make the exact same choice to support you if the situation were reversed). I’ve been yelled at, I’ve been ranted at. I’ve felt the sting of being the bigger person and extending an olive branch, only to have it snapped in half and shoved up various orifices.

But in all this, I’ve not been innocent. I’m not the victim, doing the whole “poor me” thing.

There are things about me, and my unreasonable self-inflicted expectations, that piss people off. That let people down. That make me frustrated because I continually worry about upsetting people. I’m realising that there were some essential lessons in life. Lessons that I missed or skipped over, for one reason or another. Life lessons that happened while I was tomfoolering around doing nudie runs or building stilts or repairing my car with gaffa tape.

So (and this is where this blog returns to the humour side of things), I’ve had a bit of a think about the lessons in life that I do remember. That made an impact. They either explain a lot about my character now, or explain a lot about why I continue to miss those other lessons. Here we go…

  1. A clean car runs better. This is courtesy of my Nan, who didn’t drive. I’m sure there is something in here about appearances, and maybe goes along the lines of the saying “fake it til you make it”. Did I catch that hidden message? No. Instead, I maintain a clean and tidy car, washing it and scrubbing it until it is only the gaffa tape holding it together.
  2. People who purchase bulk supplies of toilet paper are “shitty buggers”. Again, courtesy of my Nan. I took her shopping every week, first to Franklins then on to Spotlight. Every. Week. I adore my Nan and miss her a lot. But are those folk who would currently be snapping up the cartons of Cottonelle that are on special really shitty buggers? Or are they better prepared than I am? Are they perhaps more paranoid than I am? Have they lived a life experiencing moments of short supply? Are they more thorough than me, more frugal than me, or do they just have better storage? Or, perhaps they are just shitty buggers.
  3. Don’t worry about it. Not the snide “Don’t worry about it”, but the sincere “Don’t worry about it”. Because what do I do? I worry about it. Really, really well. I only hear the snide version of this rude. Not the sincere.
  4. It’s not your fault. You know that whole “Six degrees of separation” thing? Well, I am constantly just two degrees of separation from guilt. I can usually work out precisely why it is my fault. How I could have prevented certain atrocities (think tsunamis or earthquakes). How I can now repair them. Example: a chick who put me through absolute hell just three years ago is currently standing trial. Now, if I had forced the police to take what she did with me more seriously, she would have seen the error of her ways and never bothered anyone else ever again. If I had just sucked up what she dished out to me, I would still be there as her target, and she could have left these others alone. And now? I feel so, so sorry for her. I almost wish I had the courage to text her or email her, so that she has some form of support. Almost. Most of me hopes she gets locked up for a long, long time.
  5. Put yourself first. But won’t that make me selfish? Won’t people think I am greedy? then they will notice I am fat and think it is because I am greedy and selfish. Because I put myself first. THIS IS WHY I AM FAT!!! That’s the lesson in this one, right?

As I said. Key lessons.

But there are a few things I have learned recently, which I am hoping will cancel out some of this stuff.

  1. It’ll be OK in the end. If it isn’t OK, then it isn’t the end.
  2. If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
  3. It’s OK if people love me. I don’t have to believe it, or even like it. I just have to be OK with it.
  4. You can, actually, have too much milk. Current count: eight litres (five fresh, one soy, two long life cartons).
  5. You can never have enough toilet paper. You can long for better storage, but excess toilet paper is a necessity.

That’s it.

I’m kinda low tonight, kinda weary and kinda wondering why I am typing “kinda” instead of “kind of”. I mean, I didn’t just use “insteada” instead of “instead of”. What makes “kinda” OK? Is “kinda” OK?

Does it matter?

Maybe, just maybe, that is the new life lesson:

Does. It. Matter.