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A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, July 28, 2010


Yesterday, a coworker told me about the time she sharted herself.

“I must have eaten something foul,” she said. “I was sitting with my boyfriend, and I was in a towel… and I just sharted all over the place.”

She and I laughed hysterically, the kind of laughter that desperate people exude with a sort of wild abandon that disturbs non-desperate people who happen to be standing close enough to witness the unbridled, convulsive hilarity, but not close enough to have heard the story and/or be in on the joke.

“Who cleaned up—him or you?” I asked in between howling, spasmodic laughter.

She pointed to herself, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Aaaaah!” I screamed, pounding the wall. Other coworkers stared at us. “You’re not together anymore, are you?”

She was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe to answer vocally, so she just shook her head in the negative.

“He wasn’t a keeper,” I said, composing myself. “A keeper would have wiped your ass for you.”

“He said, ‘Unless you’re under eight or over eighty-four, you can wipe up your own shit.’ We didn’t last too much longer,” my coworker replied.

She then told me that, aside from her now ex-boyfriend, I am the only person in the world who knows that story. While she’s probably told it to people whilst intoxicated, I was flattered nonetheless.

“I’m glad we’re friends!” she gasped finally, launching into a lusty rendition of “The Wizard and I” from “Wicked,” which I joined in on, harmonizing (of sorts) in a raging, ultra high-decibel falsetto that echoed down the hallway. Coworkers continued to be suitably disturbed.

The funny thing is: we’re not friends. We don’t chat on the phone, or over email. We don’t socialize outside of “work” (in quotes because it’s not a real job—not really— not if you can talk loudly about sharting—it’s just “work”) and we don’t know anything about each other’s families or history or… anything, really.

And yet, I know that, a couple of years ago, this chick shat herself in nothing but a towel in front of a guy she used to fuck.


I don’t know… people tell me stuff. It makes them feel better, I think. It’s always been like that, too, for as far back as I can remember. In middle and high school, and even into college, I was the counselor, the person people would come to with relationship dilemma, existential crises, family trouble, boyfriend trouble, family drama, typical, random every day bullshit. Nobody’s ever called me with a razor to their wrist, thankfully, but for the more banal, the more mundane, the less life-threatening—folks often show up at my doorstep, or my cyber-doorstep with those issues.

I’m not quite sure why. But I kind of like it.

I’ve always wanted to be, I don’t know—important? And there nothing more important that people can trust you with than their problems, their pain, their secrets… their sharts. And, of course, I’ve totally violated this coworker’s trust by blogging about her shartage, but coworkers don’t know about my blog, and that, ladies and gents, is how it’s supposed to be.

So, her secret’s safe with me. Sort of.

Contrary to my alter-ego, Dear Apron, I treat people who come to me with dignity and respect, I hope, because, let’s face it, if somebody trusts me enough to come to me with something weighty, the most terrible thing I could do would be to drop it—or them. It’s the least I can do for a brotha or a sista, or a friend. Whatever that is.

Conversely, I’m dreadfully petrified to open up to people, to let them get close, to see me vulnerable or afraid or unsure. It’s why my opinions tend to come out so strong, so unfettered by indecision or hem-hawage. I sit with my legs tightly crossed and arms folded across my chest. An old friend of mine regarded me for a time and observed, “You like to fold yourself all up, almost into yourself, making yourself as small as humanly possible—so you don’t get into anybody’s way, or make a wave, or trouble someone.”

He’s going into psychiatry, and I love him. And I wish we saw each other more.

Ah, life. Sometimes, you’re a real shart. But you’re still a keeper.

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