The Death of a Newborn Shirt

Clean ClothesThe world is full of disgusting and awful things. Turn on the TV for a few seconds and you’ll see what I mean. I live in a relatively safe part of the world. I don’t have to deal with war, and murder. I don’t have to go out on the streets and sell blowjobs to buy crack, because I am so addicted to crack. Don’t gotta decide between killing a baby for a roll of bread. I was lucky to be raised in a middle class family. I don’t have to witness terrible things. I don’t have to decide between to impossibly evil things to survive. I was safe, right? Wrong. I did something terrible the other day… I destroyed something, something beautiful. It was a gift to the world really, a beacon of light just brought into the world. It had its whole life ahead of it. My girlfriend gave it to me as a christmas present. It was a beautiful white undershirt. It’s dead now, thanks to me… and all I could do is laugh hysterically as my girlfriend kicked me.

Lack of sleep can do amazing things to the body. I hadn’t really figured this out until recently, when I had come back from my parents house in the states to Japan. My lovely girlfriend picked me up at the airport and elected to keep me awake until a decent sleeping hour so I could get over jet lag a little easier. Oh, how nice of her! When we got to my place we exchanged Christmas gifts since I had been away for a while. She got me exactly what I wanted, two very white, beautiful, fresh undershirts to replace the two I had been wearing every day for six months without washing. She wanted me to take off that shirt, I also noticed the smell and was willing to part with it…our dating world was in alignment. I tried it on immediately for my fruitful and hopefully very long relationship with this white wonder. Fit perfectly, smelled great, all was right.

It was getting later in the evening, and it was getting time for dinner. Just before this my girlfriend had woke my desperate for sleep body up from an ill-advised nap that left me in a battle between the dream world and reality. Basically, I was a mess. My girlfriend, being the sweet Japanese spy that she is, sees how deliriously tired I am and says she will go out and pick up some food for us. Hurray! Not only did she do that, she also buys us ice cream! Double hurray!

I scarf down the delicious convenience store food and soon have my eyes on the ice cream bar she had bought me. Boy, did it look good. A hard chocolate center, covered in chocolate ice cream, covered by a hard candy shell. What more could you ask for? Triple chocolate explosion. I don’t remember anything about the actual eating of the chocolate bar. All I know is that I killed it. In a haze, much like a rabid raccoon, I absorbed the chocolate bar, not taking any care to my surroundings. I was blacked out for approximately one minute and thirty-seven seconds.

I came to. My girlfriend was standing over me in shock. She was looking at something. Not at my face…she was looking lower. Around my chest. I look down. This is what I see.
The Chocolate Stain
Yes, in a tired haze, while unconsciously enjoying delicious ice cream, I also managed to destroyed the beautiful new white undershirt that my girlfriend got me for Christmas. I looked at her, and the shirt, then back and her, and couldn’t stop laughing. Not a normal laugh, but the laugh of an insane sleep-deprived carny.

What a waste of life. That shirt can now never fulfill it’s purpose on this earth because of me. I basically killed a fetus. Don’t hate me. My girlfriend certainly does. At least it smells good.

Here’s to a better future for the world, where these things no longer happen.


Little Treasures

Going back to the place you grew up in is an extraordinary experience. While there, you may find yourself being a little bit more sentimental than you are used to. Walking around with eyes closed, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells. The sensations touch something deep inside you. Ancient feelings rushed to the forefront of your mind, born anew. You notice that, for better or worse, your home will always be a part of you, having a profound influence on who you are today, and what you will become. On my recent trip back to the place of my upbringing, being there conjured up an unexpected memory. Something that had happened while I was very young, perhaps eight or nine, which had stayed hidden from in my sub conscience for years. Yet, when it finally came back, I remembered it as clear and as vividly as it were yesterday. An event so storied and powerful, it’s a wonder I even forgot.

I almost ate poop.

Now I know what you’re thinking. No, I wasn’t some savage going throughout the house, lurking in the shadows behind the toilet, pouncing just before the flush to gorge on the delicious morsels. I was a semi-normal child. I didn’t even like poop or the act of pooping, and for good reason! Not only did my dad constantly think that I was constipated, giving me way too many suppositories, but I was also afraid the blob was going to come down and eat me while I was alone in the bathroom. It was a double poop hating whammy jam.

So eating poop, yes. It started with a deep love of chocolate. Oh, I was a vicious little fuck. I would climb over mountains of tables and counters, sneak into ever-watched keeps of highly secured cabinets, all to reach my prized chocolate, or chocolate cookies, or whatever we had in the house. I would sneak two for breakfast, five for lunch, and ten for dinner. I would go shopping with my mother with the sole purpose of getting to that choclate heaven, the super market, and raid the aisles with the skill and precisian of a Roman Centurion. If we didn’t have a suitable treat in the house, I would, like MacGyver, create a concoction of semi-sweet chocolate chips in a spoon of chunky peanut butter…or six, a suitable snack for the weary chocolate madman. I could of been slightly chubby then, but shit, I wanted my chocolate. Bitches knew not to get in my way.

One day I found a chocolate chip on the floor. I was ecstatic. It was like finding buried treasure. I quickly, without thought as to how long it had been on the floor or how it had gotten there, picked it up and ate it. It was delicious. I was the chocolate conjurer, a chocolate pirate.

A couple weeks later I found yet another chocolate chip on the floor. “Sweet! Another chocolate chip!” I thought to myself, “The chocolate pirate strikes again! Come here my little treasure”. I picked up the chip, was about to put it into my mouth, and for some reason that I cannot comprehend, I stopped. I looked at the chip. It looked like the last one I had eaten, slightly deformed. Probably due to being left on the floor and stepped on for the past couple of days, but that shouldn’t of been a problem. Why I smelt the chip I do not know, but I did. It quite the smell I expected. I smelt again, and again, and again. Wait, no, was it…yes, It was…poop. I threw it back on the floor, happy. I had caught myself before putting the poop in my mouth. It didn’t deter me in the slightest. “My sisters, of course”, I thought, “The chocolate pirate evades yet another trap from the Kraken’s vile butt”. I was a genius. Great memory, huh? Ahh, being home again.
Chocolate or Poop

Now I realize that there is great attention paid to the similarities between chocolate and poop. I feel that many of you, the awesome readers of this blog, may have their own confusing poop for chocolate stories themselves; Whether it be finding a nice warm turd in a baking pan, or being presented with a brown present from your son or daughter. I want to know these stories! I happen to have grown a great appreciation for the ever chancing brown substance that we create. Please, feel free to share in the comments section!

Until next time!