I woke up this morning with liquids coming outta my North and South America. I tried to go to work, but I shit my pants and puked like a toddler on myself, so I had to come home. Mariah Carey said at her NYE performance it doesn't get any better. She was right.
Once I felt like my stent in the bathroom spewing spring and autumn was kinda done, I watched Apollo 13. I went to see that in the theater when it came out. I was 9. I was miserable because it was like a 12 hour fucking movie (not true) and I had poison ivy on my thighs that had started to leak, and so when I went to the bathroom I couldn't pull my pants down because my elephantgirl skin was stuck to my shorts. Fast forward to today, and it's just like old times. I shouldn't have to spoon feed you that I also shit my pants that day, but I blame it on the stress of Tom Hanks getting lost. I still love Tom Hanks, though.
I slept and then one of the dogs and I played a murder game on my phone called "Criminal Case," where you gotta find body parts in gardens and shit and solve crimes. She jumped in my lap like she was ready for something so I said, "Let's find some dead people Hazel," so we did. I used her paw to touch the items when we found them in the scavenger hunt, we got points, we watched an autopsy, and we put a cartoon character behind bars for a grisly murder. We were like Cagney and Lacey. Or Rizzoli and Isles.
I don't really know what the point of this was, but I guess the moral of the story is don't feel bad if you're sick and you shit yourself. Also, don't travel with Tom Hanks or you'll end up lost or stuck in a bathroom trying to figure out how to pull down your jean shorts stuck to your chunky, poison ivy thighs before you shit yourself. Either way, you're probably gonna shit yourself, sometime. They say, "well, it can only go up from here," but I'm here to tell you that isn't true. It can get way worse.
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