I gotta feeling…

So we’re working on the flat this evening having made an entire new plaster wall, and finishing up by putting up white wallpaper on the next, when I get the sudden urge to use the bathroom. I have yet to tell the Internet about our very expert explicitly deleted bathroom entrepreneurs who have YET to finish our bloody bathroom, AND IN THE MEANWHILE left us for near three weeks without a functional toilet.

Fuck the bathroom, things take time, but I just don’t wanna piss in a bucket when I’m being all manly and flexing my biceps and shit, building a new home with my own two hands. In time each will pay his dues, but forget about that right now.

So there’s me and Lady C, putting up white wallpaper on the wall where we imagine the upper bedpost will be, when I have to use the bathroom. It’s nine in the evening, and we only have one (1) working light that burns through your scull if you look into it and through your skin and into your bone if you touch it anywhere else but the handle. That, and my LED flashlight that some kid sold me at a gas station. Apparently it replaces One Million Candles if you believe the commercial. It’s hard, sturdy and it gets everywhere. "But!" as the kid at the gas station helpfully pointed out when I was examining it, "it’s not a dildo, it’s a torch!" Which was exactly what I needed so I bought it. And it has never failed. But I digress again.

So there’s me and Lady C, wallpaper, and the million candles of a LED torch and our robust work light casting long shadows on the plaster walls around us. I need to use the bathroom. Lady C’s listening to the radio, humming the tune.
– I think I have to use the bathroom
– *singing along*
– Actually, I have to use the bathroom
– *still singing along*
– I think I’m gonna head over to Tasty to borrow their bathroom
– *still not paying attention to the man of the house*
– LADY C FFS!!!!
– What?!
– I’m heading out, I have to crap
– Oh, okay
– I’ll be right back

With the trusty not-a-dildo torchlight in hand, I ventured off into the 100 square meter apartment looking for my keys, my jacket, my cellphones and all these ridiculous new wonders of technology necessary to make a pit stop outside your home. In the silence of darkness I hear C turning the radio up, singing along to the Black Eyed Peas. I head into the used-to-be-a-kitchen type of room to look for my hat when a burst of quick business is thrust through my digestive system, my voluntary muscle control’s immediately withdrawn, the cold war is over! and barely shitting my pants I pick the nearest bucket of paint thinner to at least save the floor and my clothes and half of my dignity.

So there I was, shitting in a bucket.

Liquid shit and paint thinner doesn’t small awful, it smells godawful. In addition, the solvent rising up from the bucket makes it harder to balance on top of anything. Sniffing is extremely underrated. In a state of drug induced paralysis sitting in the kitchen on a bucket of shit on the floor, having succumbed to some sort of stomach virus with its immediate, imposing results beginning to dawn on you can make any man question the meaning of life, the universe and everything. And the goblin in the corner. It was about that time the LED flashlight went out. And I could hear Lady C singing in the next room.

I gotta feeling…
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

Nope. She had absolutely no idea how the evening would transpire.