Soiling The World

The notion of pissing into a sink never—swear to God—ever occurred to me; not until one night, when said notion was proposed by nearly all of my college housemates. They refused to believe I’d never done it. And then, after assuring them that I hadn’t, they peer-pressured me into immediately departing the living room for the nearest bathroom for the explicit purpose of pissing into the sink. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have to go. 

This reminds me of the few too-many times the other red-headed housemate, very proud of his accomplishment(s), would barge into my room and shout, “Come take a look at this shit I just took!”

Once, says Ma, I led her to a thicket of bushes bordering a preschool playground, pointed to a small clearing, and said, proudly, “Look what I made!” My “work” consisted of several stinky brown logs.

Anyway, excepting that one time, I’ve never again pissed into any sink.* Frankly, I don’t get it. Give me an inch more of height, and, maybe, I would. 

26 May 2005 

*[08/14/22: Nor have I ever again defecated into anything but a proper toilet.] 

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