Don't get this wrong. This is not a reflection on the smell of the House toilet, but on the idea of the smell of the House toilet. Go back to the beginning of the day and I'm sure this will all make sense. Or you'll understand why I don't have a poetic bone in my literate body.
Rubee the cat woke me at 4:30 p.m. with the desperate squalling to be released from my room, where he snuck in, got caught by my door closed for bed, and hours later got tired of being trapped. I had a yippy puppy's exclamations from the basement to serenade my first cigarette. The parade of housefriends began not long after that. The Freak Across the Street, whom we will now call FAS from now on, came over and wandered into my room to sit down and watch TV with me for awhile. T came home from work, and I completed the welcoming ceremony with a peck on her forehead. I listened to the Pagan rattle in the kitchen for a bit. Overall, the makings of a good day off.
What brought it all together was the mild odiferous can. Thankfully (for my readers,) I won't go into much detail. I stepped into the bathroom, and up wafted the before mentioned stench, light enough to earn no more than a classic, "Aw Geez." After the (ah) necessary activity, it dawned on me that surely, I had experienced many a stinky bathroom before I moved to the House, but near always it was my smell left, nasty as it is. This smell was like a physical marker that I'm not living alone anymore. Even the crappiest (no pun intended) things that happen in this house, are somehow better that near all the things happening in my past apartments. Honestly, I can't imagine living alone like that again. It was the aching loneliness that pushed me into the decision to move here. I wish I couldn't remember how hugely empty and devoid of life that small studio in San Francisco felt, and explains neatly why I'm so attached to my cat. I've said some less than spectacular things about the House not long after I moved here, and all the more foolish for me.
I'm sure something much more flowery and poetical than a smelly toilet could be had for this moment of understanding, but there it is. I rarely choose my neural triggers.
Time for bed.
Rubee the cat woke me at 4:30 p.m. with the desperate squalling to be released from my room, where he snuck in, got caught by my door closed for bed, and hours later got tired of being trapped. I had a yippy puppy's exclamations from the basement to serenade my first cigarette. The parade of housefriends began not long after that. The Freak Across the Street, whom we will now call FAS from now on, came over and wandered into my room to sit down and watch TV with me for awhile. T came home from work, and I completed the welcoming ceremony with a peck on her forehead. I listened to the Pagan rattle in the kitchen for a bit. Overall, the makings of a good day off.
What brought it all together was the mild odiferous can. Thankfully (for my readers,) I won't go into much detail. I stepped into the bathroom, and up wafted the before mentioned stench, light enough to earn no more than a classic, "Aw Geez." After the (ah) necessary activity, it dawned on me that surely, I had experienced many a stinky bathroom before I moved to the House, but near always it was my smell left, nasty as it is. This smell was like a physical marker that I'm not living alone anymore. Even the crappiest (no pun intended) things that happen in this house, are somehow better that near all the things happening in my past apartments. Honestly, I can't imagine living alone like that again. It was the aching loneliness that pushed me into the decision to move here. I wish I couldn't remember how hugely empty and devoid of life that small studio in San Francisco felt, and explains neatly why I'm so attached to my cat. I've said some less than spectacular things about the House not long after I moved here, and all the more foolish for me.
I'm sure something much more flowery and poetical than a smelly toilet could be had for this moment of understanding, but there it is. I rarely choose my neural triggers.
Time for bed.
"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."
Marcel Proust
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