Piss in the Pot

Author’s Note: Relaunching into the stiff-backed chair and brightly screened environment that is daily writing may require the use of topics that are mundane, inappropriate, or barely relevant to other people. This author hopes that the following report from the field has no personal resonance with you. If it does, though, we should talk.

Pissing in the pot. Piss-pot Poor. Have you ever heard that expression? That’s when you’re so poor, you don’t have indoor plumbing. Even worse off are those who “don’t have a pot to piss in”. Well, last night, I pissed in a pot.

I woke up at 3am, to drain myself of 2 cups of tea that I capriciously drank before bed. Or, maybe I woke up to check my online dating emails. I’ll never tell. The bathroom light was on, as always, serving as my beacon of light. Alas, the door was locked. I figured it was my kid in there, outrageously tapping away on an asinine “App” on one of her”electronics”. Sometimes kids do that, don’t they…But, nope.It was just a ghostly locked door situation, and I had to take a piss.

I made a little “prison-style” device out of 2 paper clips and some tape, because I looked up a video on how to unlock my particular specie of doorlock and found I required the use of a hand-tool. And what a clever chimp I am, but it did not suffice.

Now I remember one of the morbidly striking thoughts that hit me in that moment. I went to my kitchen sink, under which houses my assortment of tools. What I realized is that not only do I have NOTHING except for 2 (wrong sized) screwdrivers and a hammer that is MIA, my entire “toolbox” is filled with rusted nails, rusted batteries and broken halogen lights. And, to be fair, some dog-mouthed electrical tape that might work in certain circumstances regardless of the canine-tooth punctures. It was a shit-show of ineffectiveness. It was a mockery. If I were a boy-scout I’d be gang-raped by 7 fearless leaders. (JUST KIDDING). If I were married to a boy scout, I’d have an actual toolbox and probably not store it directly under the spot where the faucet drips.

Needless to say, I couldn’t stand the literal pressure, and decided to piss in a pot. Luckily, I had the perfect “pasta pot” that had succumbed to a massive, Irish-style cooking scorch, and had been exiled to smoke-off outside. But that was a month ago, and I’ve grown accustomed to boiling things in less suitable but effective saucepans. So, I “repurposed it” and used it as a pot to piss in. A few hours later, I convinced a neighbor to trudge over with a skinny screwdriver at am, with the unstated trade-off of seeing me in my pajamas.

This could be the end of the story, and it is…but I do have one more “pot to piss in” story that’s in me. Not sure if I should leak it out yet. It involves squatting in a basement in Jamaica Plain and peeing into old soda bottles. Someday, I will add that to my origin story.

For now, “pee”ce out!


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