I wake at 5:45 every weekday morning.  And, now, sadly, my body is in the habit of waking me early, work or no.  Sometimes it's to fart, which I prefer to do in private.  But, most often it's to pee.  Either way, week day or no, I'm up early. 

    Today, on this particularly productive morning, I both fart AND pee.  I take it as a sign.  It's gonna be a good day.  After a workout, (just heart racing enough to say Yeah, I work out) I shower.  Noticing a layer of shower scum, after a hasty shower I scour it clean.  Toilet tank, too.

     All out of lotion, I tiptoe to my daughter's room (she still has a half hour of beauty sleep to get) and steal her lotion.  It actually was mine, before she stole it from me.  That bottle has moved from one to another in our family more than the last package of Oreo's.  I dress in undies that lift my butt, a bra that attempts to return my boobs to pre-breastfeeding perkiness, and clothes that make me look somewhere between trendy young adult (I'm not) and middle aged frump (I am).

     After styling my hair, colored so that my age and stress level are not readily apparent, I open the fridge to grab lunch.  The twelve day old deli meat doesn't grab me.  Last night's leftovers conjure up a noise in my belly I can only take as protest.  Cafeteria lunch it is! I grab my coffee and yell to my sleeping spouse and child "Time to get up"- wondering, not for the first time, why their alarm clocks (identical to mine) don't seem to work.  I close the door, not frazzled but triumphant!  A clean bathroom!  Another day successfully underway!

(Clears Throat)"Okay folks,"barked Death."I know how you all feel right now. Those darn so-called protectors of citizens always ruin our good times." "Yeah!"shrieked the mob of goons. They were all beginning to get unsettled, fidgety and cranky.Some were quite dead silent, others were as loud as a megaphone, and several more looked like they were ready to rumble.

Death was a slightly or medium tall guy with chestnut hair and dark hazel eyes. Death was a strong, lean and had a fair face. He had the best smoothest skin. He had a second in command, Luiz, who was as cold as Ice on the outside but had a heart for pets. Luiz adored any kinds of animals. The cuter, fluffier, playful and charming they are-the more he loved them. Luiz had a band of golden and brunette tips in his hair. Next in the lead was Beal a tall, red-haired Atlantean who had the power to simply comprehend the speech of water creatures. Deren fell in the lead after. He had a streak of thin lines of pink in his blonde hair. He was quite well-built and could sing like a superstar. Last but not least in the group of misfits was Lyon the oldest among the group and the loudest. His voice could be heard even beneath the waters of the sea and above it. It could be heard clearly even in a whisper. The final person in the group was the team's mascot a parrot called Parrot. He liked his name so much that he had a jingle for it.

"Donald sweetie it's time for your dinner."

Donald replied,"I am coming Mum."

"Aright gentlemen,"said The Donald."same time next week."

"Yeah of course."one said.

"Definitely."said another.

"Well, it happened again."

She stands a foot taller than the fence, so that I can see her head, ominously still, but nothing more. Her eyes, somewhere in the center of the visible section of Shirley, are surrounded by pale pink flesh as crumpled as yesterday's junk mail. Trying for a scowl, I guess.

"Aw Shirley, I know you don't like it when T- "

"Dont like it!" her voice rises, operatically, reaching high enough that it almost, blessedly, blinks out of range of the perception of the human ear - almost - but not quite.

 "Eddie, I Have Shit" here she pauses, for dramatic effect, clasping her ankle and yanking her whole leg up towards me, straining to make it visible above the fence line - her foot is important evidence - 

"all over " she pauses again, looking up at me, making sure I am listening with full attention 

"my best pair of jogging shoes." 

She pants a little, and I think, but dare not say, that although her jog may be postponed, there is a perhaps a chance that she is burning some extra calories anyways, from pure inner consternation. 

I look down. T-bone, the source of this unpleasant encounter, wags his heavy tail unquestioningly, and gazes up at me, not even bothering to feign innocence. 

"I'm sorry" I say, although perhaps not convincingly.

Shirley does one of her snorts. I think for a wonderful moment that this is her closing remark, and have actually turned towards the sanctuary of my garage when she blurts out.

"Next time, I'm calling this in."

Now this is menacing.

"Is there an authority that you call about your neighbors dog crap?"

"Well I can't talk more about it right now, I have to go clean my shoe." 

 You ever been tortured? Well, for you lucky sods who haven’t, I speak from experience when I say it hurts like the proverbial motherfucker. The mission was simple: go in, get the plans, get out. But unfortunately reality is never as simple as the plan. Now I’m tied to a table dictating this to my mind journal while the big scary bearded torture master screams questions at me with a mastery of the English language so impressive a first grader would turn green with envy. What’s that you say? A mind journal? Why yes, I have a mind journal, after all, one should always have something sensational to read while being tortured. It’s like a normal journal, but not for stupid people with shitty memories. Put more simply, like a normal journal, but not for you.

“What you know!” the guard barked.

“No, no, no,” I said, “you’re doing it all wrong. It’s ‘what do you know.’ Proper English is important for interrogating, otherwise you just sound silly.” The guard punched me in the stomach. We’d been going at it like this for about a day. Thus far the guard had learned nothing and I had discovered a distinct correlation between correcting someone’s grammar and getting hurt. I think I’ll name it the Ouch Effect.

“Last time. What you know?” the guard grunted.

“Well I know that Mozart wrote his first symphony in 1764, ten percent of humans are left handed, carrots were origina-” The guard punched me again, harder this time. I groaned, straining at my restraints. “You know it’s rude to interrupt people.” I said through gritted teeth.

My mother had her best glassware wrapped in newspapers in a big trunk at the bottom of the hall closet. Once I was fascinated to read that one of the stories preserving her delicate plates was the announcement of the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. This struck me as a coincidence so bizarre as to be meaningful.  When I got older I knew better. Those plates were wrapped in the 1970s. It would have been some damn disaster or other.

Its hard to describe the 1970s to young people today. It stunk, the way a dead skunk stinks in the dead of night: nobody's fault, but unavoidable. I think that lack of anger is most peculiar to moderners. In the 21st century we know who to blame. But where Americans today gravitate towards Glenn Beck or Michael Moore, the 1970s celebrated Irma Bombeck, who explored the curious notion that Mom's Good Housekeeping books of 1950s gracious living were as phony as Star Wars.

I'm talking regular folks. The guys doing coke and David Bowie were a deliberately exclusive club.

Do you ever think about what it would be like to be a woman? Of course you do, you want to know how it feels to be a woman. Perverse reasons aside you wouldn't want to be a woman in many cases, think of one you would, where it would be considerably worse to be a guy.

Well I'm introducing you to Anne, Anne used to be Angus, until one day Angus was in a bad bicycle accident and got neutered by the handlebars.

Anne could never get used to the life of a woman, to always sit on the toilet, to shave an ever growing beard, to do things like trimming toenails so she could wear more "girly" shoes and clothes as apparently, heavy metal shirts picturing death, blood, and a scrawled name of a band such as "Dying Fetus" was inappropriate for the average girl. In denial of this Anne had bought items such as a "she-wee" so that she may stand once more while using the toilet, and so that on a night out with the lads could once again be pulled up by the police for pissing on a lamp post and proceed to spill onto the leg of said police officer. Angus had died in the car accident for all intents and purposes, Anne was his cousin, his cousin who looked awfully like him but without any knackers and long hair. Through various hormonal treatments he had grown breasts and looked considerably more female, but besides what she looked like she was still Angus, and if you get my gist, a bloke trying to live life as eloquently as a woman.

I'm a horrible person. There, I said it. It is likely that there are many people who have now sighed in relief at the admittance of my own horribleness, including the boy in my first grade class whom I once punched in the teeth- he stole my graham cracker!- as well as my own parents, bless them. But Rose would  never call me horrible, and that only makes it worse. 

Rose is beautiful, like her name. Her sparkling laugh and golden-brown hair and clever eyes are all beautiful. So of course I love her,  wholly and stupidly, because everyone does. She loves me too, wholly and platonically, because she loves everyone that way. And it's the fact that I love her in a way she could never love me that makes me so revoltingly, puke-inducingly horrible.

Rose doesn't love me. She loves Blake, and Blake isn't beautiful. At least he's not horrible. He's...Blake. And the sad truth is that all Blakes are the same. 

I'm going too quickly here. I'm Ella, and I love girls, and I especially love Rose, and Rose loves boys, especially Blake. 

Yes, this is one of those stories. I'm not sorry for that. For like I said, I am horrible. 

Dear reader, what you are reading are extremely precious words. Every word written in the moments that I have been able to hide out in the bathroom while my younger brother has knocked and hit against the door. You see I am not much for sharing my thoughts. Well at least not with the family. I guess sharing them with the world seems a lot safer. 

Well the reason that you get the chance to read these are, well cause one day I really do plan on taking the world. 

I am not much for stepping out (the other side effects of having a "capable" little brother is that there is always food in the fridge). He also someone seems to accept that it is actually the spirit of our dog that comes to eat it.

I mean sure, the guy might not be able to figure that out, but luckily he sure can find his way around cars and fixing them.

Hmm what's that smell? Go away foul spell, you are taking precious words from my future autobiography. 

"Alright, alright I am coming out".

Tom is sitting at his computer. He types, 'Do you know why Barbies' hands are shaped like that? So she can read books. She can shake hands. She can open cans with those hands. She can hold the crime scene tape and a garden hose. Yes Barbie can gouge a liver out and clear a windshield. Just think of the hands of Barbie.' Tom stops for a moment. He is to be writing for a roast of the Mattel founders tomorrow. He considers, and well it is a roast. He writes some more. 'I heard Ken said to the three founders, "Barbie just needs to bring those fingers around a little bit Mr. Handler!" Tom leans back. He has another project. He'll give this one a rest.

Tom's other assignment is some stand up material for The Comedy Store. He writes, 'The other day I was at dog beach. I think it's cool how they provide receptacles for dog shit. Who empties  those things anyway. The owners ignore all the butt sniffing. They've been doing so much of that at work I guess they figure it's the dog's turn. One of the dogs had corn rows..........everywhere.......and somehow he had a freakin barbie doll hanging on to a dingleberry.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What is that?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Why is she awake?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Maybe she's thirsty.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hope she doesn't have to use the restroom. It's so cold outside.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I really wish they had carpet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

LET ME SLEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh my God. Fiiiiiine.

Exasperated, I threw the covers off of me. I need a real job, I thought to myself.

Petsitting for fifty bucks a night sounds great on the surface. Walk the dog a few times. Feed her. Sit on the couch, do nothing, get paid.

But here I am. And I miss my bed. And my boyfriend. And my routine. My anxiety and clean-freak nature have skyrocketed living amongst other people's dirt. Yes, I realize how petty that sounds. Yes, I know I need professional help.

I stepped onto the cold hardwood floor and made my way down from the loft to the main floor. I clicked on the light near the front door, illuminating the space in front of me.

The Tap. Tap. Tap. abruptly ceased.

Tess positioned herself sideways directly in front of me. She turned her head in my direction, and her cataract-filled eyes looked into mine.

Is that fear? Or... No, no, no, no, no, NO, NOOOO!

The sound of liquid hitting the floor accompanied by small farts made my stomach drop.

I was torn between sadness for the old pup who must've had quite the stomachache, anger at myself for not listening to her Tap. Tap. Tap. as a warning that she needed to go out, and the nausea overcoming me as the smell of diarrhea hit my nostrils.

I don't get paid enough for this shit.