has been depressing me lately. I’ve been letting you all down, my myriad readers, with my careless and occasional posting. I promise to make right this poor behavior and will write many important things in the next few days, following Lord of the Rings (I will see it tomorrow if it kills me), tonight’s episode of The Simple Life, and of course the New Year’s episode of The OC tomorrow night.
Aside from my general lack of enthusiasm, I feel like Margaret has more than adequately covered some of the topics I could potentially write about, such as Scientology(TM) and Christmas, so I’m caught searching. I guess I should get in the habit of writing about things immediately rather than watching porno and procrastinating about making some crappy dinner for myself. This entry is now becoming dangerously similar to a thirteen-year-old girl’s Livejournal, so I’m going to tell you a story.
There was this time, when I was
probably about eight or nine years old, that I was over at my friend Shawn’s house on the lake for a Fourth of July party. It was a party for kids and parents, and after the barbecue and the really expensive fireworks (Shawn’s dad liked to talk about how much things cost), the parents went out for a ride on the family boat, which was also really expensive. The kids were left to fend for ourselves in the house, and told not to go near the lake. We were playing Major League Baseball for the NES and arguing over who could play New Jersey, which was the best team by far for some inexplicable reason. The argument was so heated that I stayed and fought it out despite the fact that I had to pee. When I finally gave in and went to the bathroom, I was in a pee panic, trying to undo my shorts, the drawstrings of which had somehow become knotted beyond hope. In retrospect, I should have peed out the leg hole, but as it was I ended up soaking my shorts and creating a puddle on the bathroom floor.
I wiped up the mess with toilet paper and hurriedly tried to dry myself, not wanting my friends to think I was taking a humongous poop, but it was too late. I heard knocks at the door and farting noises from the other side. I still had pee down my leg and I was trying to clean it up when I heard laughter from outside. They were trying to look in the window! I closed the curtains as best I could, but it was no use. I ran out the backdoor to the lake.
They followed me and asked me what I was doing. I was staring out at the black water, trying to hide the red in my face and helplessly thinking of what to do next. I couldn’t go back in or they would know I had pee all over myself, so I walked slowly along the bank as my friends started calling me and telling me I wasn’t allowed to do that. I then ran around the side of the house and hid behind a tree. A few of the boys gave chase, but they didn’t see me because even as a child I was very sneaky.
From there I made my way back into the house and sat in the fetal position behind the large, expensive reclining chair in the living room. I was there when the parents disembarked, when they asked about my whereabouts, and when they searched, panic-stricken, along the lakeside for my drowned remains. I stayed there until they stopped searching and I don’t remember their faces, but it was at that point that I jumped out and said “Boo!” They were mad, and I remember having to ride home with my dad, which was terrifying, both because he could yell more loudly than my mom and it was also much more embarassing for him to know that I had peed my pants. Funnily enough, he didn’t yell and I’m not sure he ever knew that I had peed myself, because when I got home I ran up to my room, put my shorts in the dirty clothes hamper, and took a shower. Afterwards I never discussed that night with anyone, but I figure that my mom put two and two together when she was doing the laundry. As a result of that disastrous night, whenever I pee myself I am very open about it to avoid the formation of search parties. Don’t be alarmed: it’s only that yellow because I take vitamins.