It always ends in...

As I took Bruiser to yet another "hospital" (read: mechanic), I felt a breeze that reminded me of 1990. I was seven and doing "bad things" was still just a hobby instead of a bad habit. It was one of those moments - the kind that causes me to talk to myself, the kind of moment that makes for an awkward silence when caught by someone else. Kind of like flatulence, except it generally doesn't smell, nor is there a feeling of relief, but the fear is strikingly similar to that of soiling myself...odd I know. I sense digression...


Why does it always lead to poop? I guess a lot of things in life end in poop, or at the very least a trip to the bathroom. I don't care if your meal was prepared by a world renowned chef using only the finest and freshest ingredients - it will still end in shit. If it doesn't end in shit, well you've got some other problems you should be looking into. Sadly, going number two is often the highlight of my day. In fact, I routinely fight the urge to shit in order to build up some excitement, pile on the intensity, you know squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of it. I refer to this as my battle against nature. The ferocity of this frequently leads to copious amounts of sweat, shaking, and malodorous scents...I'm sorry, I fear I've let this topic string on for too long.


So back to 1990. What a year...I remember not wanting it to change. I don't think it had much to do with my life per se, but I thought that 1990 just sounded so nice. The numbers worked so well together - say it - nineteen ninety...see? Ok, maybe you don't feel the same way, but I did and I really didn't want it to change. I couldn't understand why it had to change. I figured, phonetically it was such a neat, as in clean, orderly, and simple, sounding year. There was really no need to change it. I finally got over it when I convinced myself that although 1991 didn't sound as nice, written, the year 1991 made for a nice palindrome. Tradeoffs I guess, much like growing up. Can't have your phonetics and plaindrome-s too...?


Man, being seven was weird. I remember wearing really ridiculous pants and obsessing about being cool. Don't lie, you wore them too - and if you were in your teens, it's even worse, at least I was just seven. (*note: that's what they are going to say about all the ridiculous looking hipsters and their skinny jeans, anorexic dudes, fat chicks, and ridiculous dude haircuts - girls it's ok to have fancy hair, dudes, it's not, well unless you're gay, then I guess the rules are different. Back to the pants...) My pants not only sported the most gaudy, neon ridden textile design, it also had a gartered waist, and as an added bonus, gartered ankles. Yup...I was stylin'. Why did they ever make gartered ankles? What's even worse is that they made them in larger sizes for adults...and wait, just when you thought it didn't get any worse, the adults actually wore them. Sure, I can understand certain lines of work that would benefit from gartered ankles, but for casual wear, no, there is no need for gartered ankles! None. Not one. Not a bit. Not any.


Perhaps you're thinking, I'm being a bit harsh on gartered ankles. After all they may prevent some unwanted objects from entering through the ankles...I guess. Or, they might prevent items from leaving through the ankles. The only thing that comes mind is poop. I guess they thought, hey, if you shit yourself, don't worry. It's staying in your pants, and if you're wearing loose undies, it'll keep your ankles warm. But really? Wouldn't you rather have the option to "shake-a-leg" and let it drop to the floor? I would. Well I guess we're back to poop. Hmm...*Sigh.


There was more to this blog...I think I was about ramble on about childhood memories, but then the whole poop thing presented itself as such a nice, neat and easy way to end this damn thing. So maybe next time?