I’m Pooped.

Literally. As in, I was lazing around in bed when I probably should have been up and around in the real world, thought I was gassy, but, no…I was “poopy.” I mean, I’m not an idiot; I didn’t take a crap in bed. That lackadaisical I’m not. T.M.I. ALERT! – But the scene was, how shall I put it, oozy. Shit, I thought as I threw off my covers, that’s truly shitty. This confirms my theory of physical decrepitude, which is that humans were meant to drop dead around 35. ‘Cause it’s all bodily breakdowns from then on.

Even my “vintage” 1933 original toilet’s showing its age by spontaneously whooshing to life as though it’s going to flush itself. Sometimes in the middle of the night. As if I weren’t the lightest sleeper in San Francisco already.

Continuing on the weirdness train, I’m pretty convinced that my pooch Theo Fannybrice has been reading the blog. Ever since I detailed his standoffish cruelties he’s become alarmingly affectionate. A tail waggin, face lickin, cuddlin’ canine fool. Damn, he’s smart.

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