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January 7, 2011 / Prof Cupcake.

this one time… i shat myself.

Pre new years terror: (meant to post this before the new year, and then in light of new years celebrations think its appropriate.)

As January 1st hurdles into view I am left with the abysmal realization that of my resolutions from 2010 I have achieved well none of them.

I made the usual ones I have been making since I was about 17 (and old enough to know that having sex is better then doing most other things.) those resolutions that sound like advice from the hallmark channel, the ‘I will go to the gym’ or ‘I will eat more salad’ or ‘I will practice boy kegel exercises everyday while sitting on the tube’, gems of self advice which we all pretend we do out of some greater sense of self worth but are in fact entirely predicated on the desire of having whomever we are sleeping with telling their friends what a catch we are because we paint, or are vegan or do boy kegel’s on commuter transport, during rush hour.

Yet what irks me most, is 2010 was the year I promised not to shit myself. This is not a resolution I have ever made before. Nor have I had a reason to, I have in fact (with the exception of once in the unfortunately not yet distant enough past, the event in question which we shall shortly be arriving at) not shat myself in my living memory. Which is nice. Embarrassing bathroom stores come up around Christmas (tis the season?!) thanks to inebriated family and friends and till now my worst one was I once pissed into my own mouth while getting changed, which is apparently quite normal got young baby boys I guess.

Yet 2010 was different. 2010 was cruel. In the interest of being able to look back on a year otherwise dedicated to hedonistic pursuits and a general lack of willingness to realize that I was no longer a student and effectively out of a job not to mention a way of life, I stumbled upon the brilliant idea of achievable goals. Fuck this going to the gym shit or learning to utilize watercolors to explore my relationship with my mother, I decided to make resolutions I knew I could keep. I promised myself that if there was only one resolution, one goal, in the mass of absurd delusions of self-motivation, ‘in only takes two weeks of change to make a pattern’ pop psychology self help crap that I could keep, that that one goal would give me a nice sense of self worth; a smug self-reliant smile I could flash to attractive men on the street.

It would say things like: “hey, you, yeah you, I can keep a few or well one of the promises I make to myself, that’s a change, I’m new an improved, you want this.”

It might also speak of sunbeams and picnics and country roads with the top down on our 1966 death trap of an attractive mustang, (a model that was not equipped with a soft top but these are day dreams people so lets not get pedantic)

It would be a smile that would let the world know that I had achieved, or was on my way to achieving something.

Standing in the park, walking a friend’s dog with a small amount of shit trickling down my legs, I discovered a personal sort of rock bottom. I would call it a breakdown and a shrink would call it a spiritual awakening, but I think most people would just call it tragic and vaguely off-putting. I would like to say this incident was do to fate some sort of godly inflicted hubris but hoping not to shit yourself is not exactly displaying haughty arrogance and or being out of touch with reality and the achievable skills of oneself.  It might have had something to do with the rather dodgy food I ate, which had inflicted a similar fate on two friends (though only one shat herself) but either way the event in it of itself was rather crushing.

Had I not been so certain I could achieve this goal there is no way I would have talked about it to so many people. Explaining to them my rational behind the achievable goal and exploring why I had decided to make the achievable task to be ‘not shitting myself’ rather then the equally if not in my case more achievable goal of converting oxygen to co2 as well as other gases, (which given my propensity to fail self assigned tasks, no I am not choosing to be my 2011 resolution in case I can not achieve that either) (incase you are wondering why I chose not shitting myself, it was because at the time it seemed like an absurd thing to not be able to do, there is no greater or loftier motivation behind it.)

If I am honest the shit left a stain on twenty ten. Each time I fart these days I’m worried that it’s the first time it happens for the second time, the start of a pattern. A cycle. An endless world where I shit myself ‘ de regular’ and even if ‘de regular’ is once every eight to fifteen months that’s still way to often. My life could become an endless journey of trips to the bathroom in adult sized depends showing off awkward and downright unflattering pant lines while cruising gay bars. Its taken a good deal of the fun and some of the spontaneity out of life. I live now with the fear that I could shit myself again, at any time, anywhere, it might just… happen… Some think this odd, or be it, weird to be so obsessed and mortified about my own lack of bathroom capabilities, but I promise you this, once you have shat yourself, you don’t take the little things for granted. Like a window into my future (distant future please) self when I walk up stairs now I find my self thrilled that I have yet to start my Boniva medication and have little to none bone loss. Thrilled that I can hear the birds chirp in spring with out the use of a complex hearing aid that looks like a freak cross between a lima bean and a radio shack. So I shat myself but hey at least I’ve dodged male pattern baldness, (for now)

It’s the little things, the simple things, the water damage on the bottom of an old black and white family portrait, a kids action figure missing a foot in a gutter, an old letter from an even older friend, the simple things that make me stop now. Wait… sorry… kidding. Fuck that, I don’t even have time to realize the people in the photo are my family I’m so busy hoping the sound of water rushing into the gutter doesn’t make me piss and shit myself.

Yet there is something to be said for getting back on the horse once you have slid off. so as this new New Years approaches I’m thinking it might be ok to go back to assigning myself absurdly unrealistic resolutions, (I will only eat tofu, or food that’s off white or sing and the shower. Or rule France.) (I would LOVE to rule France. I MEAN




…. But eh… that’s another story.)

or maybe just the resolution that this year I will not shit myself.


Take that ye Grecian gods and strike me down with you all mighty hubris club, I have spare underwear and a wash stroke drier in my flat, I’m ready for anything, bring it twenty eleven for in the words of CHER our immortal lady on high, you aint seen the last of me yet.


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