Flushed

Worked all day. Shit all day, too. I must have taken 15 shits today - and the day still isn't over. Something strange happens to your soul when you work 12 hours on a Saturday. It's the same thing that happens to your ass when you take 15 shits. It starts to feel red and raw, tender and hot - like the area below your nose that gets chapped to hell when you have a cold and keep blowing it. Today, I blew my asshole.

I wanted to rub vaseline on it - to moisturize it - but my brother told me that would be gay. Is it true? What has the world come to that a man can no longer rub a liberal finger-full of vaseline around his irritated anus to soothe the pain? Freedom isn't free. I wonder if it's gay to jerk off. I mean, only a faggot would like the feel of a firm man-hand around his cock, right?

It was the Profuser's birthday today. I feel like I've started too many sentences with it this post. Nope, I checked - it's my imagination. Anyway, it wasn't his actual birthday, but it was the day he'd set aside to celebrate. I feel bad because I didn't even get to see him. I wanted to administer birthday punches to his arm; the one in the sling. He'd have been hopped up on so much Oxy, he wouldn't have even felt it. But still, I would've liked to have been there with him. I don't get to see him often enough, now that he serves a different corporate master. Oh well, foiled again by the man(s).

I'm not even sure how old he is now. Forty? He still has more hair than me. The other day I'd asked him at what age do men start to shrink, when our bones get all compact and we hunch down, hobbled and humbled by time. He told me that he wasn't sure, but that his dick has been shrinking for years now. I believe it. Where is this raunchiness coming from today? Usually I'm a model of decency on this blog, upholding decorum and eschewing impropriety as best I can. Today must be an anomaly.

What else? Is there anything else? Nope. I'm beat. I think I flushed my intrepid energy down the toilet with the lining of my shit-stained sphincter. We're all little turds in time, flushed down the bowl, spiraling clockwise, floating in the corkscrew current, until with a loud belch, we're claimed by the swirling.