What better way to celebrate than sitting alone at home, alienated from humanity, living each moment as if life were a poem of existential plea?
I've just done the washing up. That's all the housework I'm going to do. I'm not even going to dry up or put the things away either. It is Friday night after all. I can be a right devil.
Underneath the draining board, the washing machine's still on. I know I really should hang the stuff out as soon as its finished. Otherwise all the clothing will be fetidly rotting in the drum all night. It won't feel as clean when I wear it, because I'll be cursed by how my idleness made it grubby. But the digital display on the machine is taunting me. Cruelly, I can't just get this task over with now. There's still ten minutes to go till the cycle finishes.
Even if I walk away and try to occupy myself with something else, those ten minutes will be hanging over me, stifling any potential enjoyment. Or worse still, I will immerse myself in a new activity and forget about the damp clothing until I'm really tired and sorting the washing out becomes a horrific task.
My options? Well I could sneak up to bed before the washer finishes. That'd take the dilemma out. The same damp-clothes problem will still await me in the morning, but being asleep somehow excuses me from my own laziness, allowing unconsciousness to solve my nagging problem.
Yes, I think I'll do that.
I'm in bed. I need to get to sleep within ten minutes otherwise I will be possessed by the clammy washing again. Dimly aware of the countdown pressing on downstairs, I realise I need the toilet. Have I got time to cram in a toilet trip and still achieve a state of emanicipating bliss? Probably not. But neither can I sleep given the discomfort of the bodily waste bearing down through my insides.
I get up.
As I am sitting on the toilet, I am abruptly interrupted by a loud banging sound from downstairs. I jump out of my skin with fear. My immediate worry is that it might be some sort of special branch of the police, hammering at my door following the content of yesterday's blog entry. Or it could be a burglar.
I should really check what on Earth it is. Immediately. But I can't stop now, my bowels are in full swing. In any case, I don't want to stop now, just to risk finding some nightmarish horror. Nor do I want any hypothetical intruders to find me. There is no more vulnerable feeling than one of an undressed, unwiped deficating man.
Eventually I conclude my deposit. The alarming noise has subsided so I trepidly venture downstairs. It turns out the banging was simply the noise of the washing machine entering it's final rapid spin, causing it to thud against the condiments and cutlery on draining board above.
The machine has won the battle of wills this time.
Footnote to self(s)
Congratulations. You can now officially certify yourself as insane.
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