The unfortunate events that follow transpired about a week ago. Brace yourselves; like an elderly porn star's member, this ride is long and bumpy.
First, background. I am moving out of the apartment I have lived in for the past year and, in an effort to make the process easier come move-out day, I have been cleaning the place up over the course of the past week or so. This has been one of the more arduous undertakings I have ever faced. To my eternal shame, I, along with my roommates, have lived like a filthy, savage animal for the past year. I don't quite understand how it happened--I am normally quite a clean, fastidious person--but over the course of the last 365 days the four of us (my roommates and I) have taken a perfectly decent living space and transformed it into a putrid, stinking garbage-scape. Two of my roommates have gone already, and one is some weird social vampire that seldom leaves his room, so the effort to de-filthify the apartment was left to me.
I approached the task with an old-school, Genesis style strategy: On the first day, I cleaned the trash out of the living room and vacuumed the carpet that lay beneath. And it was good. On the second day, I banished the slime from the refrigerator and smote with fiery Windex the grease that clung to the stove. And it, too, was good. On the third day, I drove out the year's worth of cum rags from beneath my bed and washed and folded the mountains of laundry on the floor. This, too, was good. On the fourth day I was freaking done with cleaning and went to the beach. But on the fifth and final day, (things were bad, but not bad enough to warrant a full week, thank . . . me, I guess) on the fifth day, I undertook to clean the filthiest room of all--the bathroom.
Things in the bathroom were bad. Real bad. Too real and too bad for a mere mortal such as myself. Mold. Mildew. Everywhere. Don't open your eyes. Don't open your mouth. Squeeze tight your sphincter and pray none of the infected moldy air worms its way inside of you. That kind of bad. So I bleached the living holy fuck out of it. I was like a vengeful god, smiting sinners with holy bolts of unbridled furious sanitation. I probably wiped out entire microbe civilizations in the span of a single afternoon. Such was my righteous fury. With scrub brush and scouring pad, I overthrew the tyranny of rot and decay that had established itself over the past year of neglect. However, there was a shitty, shitty lining to this wonderfully clean and sparking cloud. Bleach fumes. They last longer than you'd think. The bathroom, despite being cleaner than a bottle of hand sanitizer, was unusable for a significant time after cleaning it. I had gone way overboard with the bleach. This was the first fuck up.
Flash forward several hours. I have now spent considerable time googling the ill-effects bleach fumes can wreak on the human body and am now terrified of going into the bleach Chernobyl that is my bathroom. Flash forward again a couple of minutes. My bowels are rumbling. They must be released. But what do I do? I can't just scoot into the bathroom, drop my bomb, and dash. The storm building in my colon is going to take longer than that to pass. But neither can I ride it out. I'll choke on the bleach fumes and die with shit hanging out my ass. Ignominious, and unacceptable. But wait! A lightbulb goes off. I'll just go to my girlfriend's place and do the deed there! (Our apartment did have two bathrooms, but I only cleaned the one I shared. My other two roomates' bathroom was even worse than mine--it was like some sort of twisted DARPA biological weapons development lab--no way I was going anywhere near that).
So, my course of action was set. Over the hills and to GF's house to poop I go. I am in a significant hurry as the urge is . . . pressing. However, the storm brewing in the sky is impressive enough to distract me for a moment from the hurricane churning in my bowels. the storm clouds are so crazy looking that I even stop to take a picture of them. "This is like the storm from Mad Max," I think. "Hey, I'm kind of like Mad Max," I then think. I smile to myself in satisfaction at this comparison. You are like Mad Max, u/iPeedYouaPoem. And then I'm on my way and I think no more of it.
I arrive at GF's place. Hi. How are you. Good. I am good. I have to poop. My bathroom is Chernobyl. Poop here. All set. I ascend the throne and enjoy a long, triumphant poop. I read several politico articles. I am feeling good. I flush, wash my hands, and take my leave of the bathroom. GF is in the living room reading. Hello. How are you. Good. Oh, yes, the poop was quite nice. I read politico. Nice. GF is the best. I was full of poop, and in my time of need, she gave me a toilet. However, I notice a strange roaring sound coming from outside. I look out the window. There is a horizontal wall of water rushing past outside. It is raining completely sideways. And then every cell in my body, from my brainstem to my butthole clenches. Dread seeps into the very fiber of my being. I left the windows open. Not my car windows. The windows to my apartment.
You see, in an effort to speed up the evacuation of the toxic bleach fumes from my bathroom, I had opened all the windows in the apartment. I had, however, totally forgotten this. I half swim, half sprint back to my apartment. But I'm too late. I arrive to find everything in the living room even more drenched than I am.
I then spent the rest of the night drying everything out. But that's not all. In a fitting coda to my series of fuck ups, I sliced up my fingers trying to dry off the blinds, because apparently blinds are made with razor blades.
tl;dr: I used way too much bleach cleaning my bathroom, opened the windows to air the place out, left without closing windows right before a massive storm to go poop at my GF's house since my bathroom was soaked in bleach, swamp moved into my living room while I was enjoying a leisurely bowel movement elsewhere. And then cut my fingers all up because the swamp just wasn't enough.
Submitted June 25, 2015 at 09:03AM by iPeedYouaPoem http://ift.tt/1BBQ0Tq tifu
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