I think I might have a boyfriend.
I only suspect this because he says very nice things to me, frequently inquires as to what I’m doing, and often times pays for my food.
And I think I might like him because I don’t particularly mind it.
I am very hesitant about entering into relationships.
There are things I like about being single. I like silly dancing in the morning time when I put on the radio, I like watching whatever I want on tv, eating at whatever time I please, going out with my friends without feeling like it’s pointless, and farting.
I like farting. They’re like little pockets of air saying hello and letting me know that things are working. Plus it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. He hasn’t figured out that women do that yet. I feel like it’s inevitable that he’s going to find out eventually. I’ve been good about it so far but one day I know I’ll mess up. One day I’ll think it will be silent and it isn’t, or I just can’t find an excuse to walk away fast enough, or it’ll happen in my sleep.
Boy came to visit. He was staying with me in my tiny New York apartment. Living together. Every second spent together, I was being watched like a hawk. One morning I left and escaped to the bathroom without saying anything. I returned to find Boy standing there.
“What took you so long?”
I was pooping. It was clear that I was pooping. But I couldn’t say that.
It’s a lot of pressure to be a woman. There’s a lot of pretending to be perfect going on. There’s makeup, and hair straightening, and pretending like you only go to the bathroom to gossip, fix your makeup, or snort cocaine. That’s why there’s couches in women’s bathrooms but never in men’s. Men usually build the bathrooms. They probably just assume the stalls are there for decoration.
And who am I to tell them they’re wrong?
Some day a woman much stronger than I will tell people she poops. Perhaps it will be Oprah, or Hilary Clinton. She will stand up, and proudly say that she feels repressed by society’s female sexual objectification, and that everyone should know that she poops. She will be a hero. But it will not be me.
There’s a book called “Everybody Poops.”
It’s a kids book about how everyone poops.
Birds poop and bears poop. Mice poop and bugs poop. Barack Obama poops. But women do not poop. We just dissipate all of our waste into Mel Gibson. And that’s why he’s full of it.