Birthdays. A day where each and every person can feel special, have friends and family celebrate their birth, and, most importantly, you get a free pass at Disney (The rides suck but there's a little thing called "drinkin' 'round the world" at Epcot that is pure de-light.). As a world renowned narcissist, I consider my birthday a thing of magic and wonder and free stuff. So when my special happy day goes wrong, people are going to hear about it.
I won't bore you with the details of a severe sunburn, horrible weather, an earthquake, and a general lack of communication from a lot of important people, but I will fill you in on a much more interesting and disgusting reason why my 25th sucked balls.
I didn't plan on doing anything for my birthday but last minute I ended up going downstairs to a bar for a few drinks with the Nasty's and the Freaky's (a weekend routine). An outside friend was brought in - we'll call him Jerry - who no one knew but was welcomed all the same. As we hung out at the bar, everyone had some drinks and were feeling pretty good, but Jerry was was feeling GREAT. He danced and sang and downed drink after drink.
I was getting hungry (big shock) and wanted to pay a little visit to my not so secret lover, the quesadilla from Los Muchachos, so we headed back to my apartment - my brand new apt with brand new carpet and brand new furniture. Before I was done with my cheesy meal, Jerry was getting destructive and then started not to feel so well.
Do we see where this story is headed?
If you guessed that he would start barfing next, you'd be right. If you guessed he would take out my new, never been used pot to throw up into, you'd also be right. And if you guessed that he would use my beach towels instead of the roll of paper towels next to him to clean up, you would basically be psychic! So congrats on that. But like I said earlier, still, no one knew what was coming...
I woke up the next morning to discover three things: 1) Jerry was gone, 2) Jerry shit his pants while sleeping on my couch, 3) Jerry had left the vomit/poop mess for everyone else to clean. HE POOPED ON MY COUCH AND ON MY FLOOR AND ON MY TOWELS and then had the nerve to leave it for everyone else to clean. He left poopy underwear in my trash can. He left vomit in my pot in my sink. He left a smell that still haunts me to this day.
A lot of the mess had been cleaned before I had to deal with it, but after an ottoman was moved, a new stain was discovered - A POOP STAIN THAT LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE DRAGGED THEIR FINGERS THROUGH IT. (Did he scoop his poop and then wipe it on the floor? And then after that put my ottoman over it to hide the stain? And did I mention that this is the first time any of us had ever met him?)
So there I was, on my fucking birthday, scrubbing someone else's shit off my carpet. So Jerry, if you're reading this, I know I am super hilarious but you shouldn't find this funny in the slightest. And if you do think this is funny, I don't even need to insult you, you shit yourself.
This may be a vengeance blog (the best kind of blog, in my opinion), but also an educational one. We all learned a lesson here - don't poop and run, it's rude. And if you do, at least offer to pay for steam cleaning.
***** ALSO: Actual birthday "card" I got from a family member suggesting I donate $10 to the Catholic Church for my birthday...