September 11th

It feels much later than it is. The bugs are louder than I think they usually are. There's ice cream in the fridge, but my belly is full-full-full-full (full). With each click, tap, click, it is more apparent that my click, tap, clicking isn't going to accomplish anything. I've been sitting here for a few hours. When I sit here like this, this warm but not positive sensation of patheticyness starts at the ends of the few hairs on my head to the tips of the many hairs on my toes. The type of shame that the kind person who wets himself feels. I haven't wet myself, and I'm relatively certain that I won't. But I feel like a strange connection to this kind of person in these moments. But. At least this kind of person has accomplished something. He's pissed himself. And there is an implication that he will clean up after himself eventually. That's more than I've got. He's got verbs and all I've got is clicking noises. And some ice cream in the fridge, but I'm not going to eat that.

I know the house is fully occupied, but I might well be on the surface of the moon. Midnight shouldn't feel so lonely. I shouldn't feel so lonely. Sometimes when you go somewhere and you have to go to the bathroom, somewhere public--store or a restaurant. And you find the bathroom, and it's one that is totally private. The kind that you lock the door. Not just, the stall... the whole door. You're in there by yourself. And. And your adrenalin is pumping because you have complete bathroom freedom. You can pull your pants all the way down. You can spread your legs ultra wide. You can hum if you'd like. You can let your butt make the noises it was born to make, and not feel self conscious or pretend to cough or flush the toilet every time you make poo noises (and maybe get a little toilet water spray on your bottom parts). I mean. You could do that if you wanted, because you're in an unregulated zone. But as your going to the bathroom (pooping or peeping... depending on the context) a sharp pain of loneliness stabs you. You are the only person in this bathroom. There is no one choosing paper towels over the electric hand dryer (unless it's the Dyson one, of course). There's no one next to you flushing the toilet every time their butt makes poo noises. If you had an attack in this bathroom, like Elvis or non-famous people who've died in bathrooms, it's possible you wouldn't be found for hours. Days. There's a loneliness to be found in singular bathrooms, despite the freedoms they promise. These midnight moments that I'm typing from, they feel like the loneliness of a singular bathroom. It will pass.

I think I'm gonna eat that ice cream. But you knew that all along, didn't you?


kmc