It’s been a struggle to keep away from all those drugs and alcohols I love so much, but so far I’ve managed to maintain my Mike-inspired vow of straightedginess. However, for all my valiant efforts of actively denying myself things that were never an issue to begin with in order to attain artistic inspiration through withdrawal and suffering (you can tell I’m not serious about it because if I really wanted to suffer for my art of sitting around the house naked there wouldn’t be 12 litres of Diet Coke in the truck of the car), I’m probably getting a goddamn contact high every single time I pee.
On the plus side, three ongoing mysteries have all been wrapped up in a neat little package:
The Smell: What I was afraid was the horrible stench of hobo poop is actually nothing of the sort – it’s pot. Really, really skunky pot. Our new downstairs neighbours like to hotbox their bathroom every single night without fail (the appearance of The Smell began shortly after someone moved in below us), and as our bathrooms are connected, it wafts in through the ventilation and makes our place reek. It’s probably coating everything in resin, which results in the contact high via my butt when I pee. I don’t really know what (if anything) I can do about it, since this isn’t an apartment building and I know they don’t have a balcony. I’m not so Evil Neighboury that I care one way or another if my neighbours smoke up, but it smells AWFUL and is incredibly strong, and it’s every. single. night. I have to keep my bathroom door closed to try to contain the stench, because I really don’t want it reaching my clothes (the closet is attached to the bathroom; it’s an ensuite). Even worse, my brain immediately associates the smell with hobo poop even though it knows better, and it makes bedtime kind of unpleasant. I don’t WANT to trip balls every time I pee. This is most worrisome.
Like I said, all the mysteries are falling into place – suddenly, the 1am baby in 217 makes sense. I don’t yet know (or care, really) if he (I’m assuming it’s the dad, because if it was a breastfeeding mom that baby would be a lot more mellow at 1am) is having a hard time coping with parenthood and smokes up to deal OR if he was a pothead all along and the baby screams at 1am because it doesn’t like the smell any more than I do, but all of these things started at the same time and are likely related.
The third mystery does not have to do with my neighbours or my THC-laden butt: for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out why the hell I’ve suddenly acquired a gaggle of recovering alcoholics as Twitter followers. I’m wondering if someone (they’re all connected to each other, and all annoying) searched for “straightedge” “never again” “giant floppy dongs in my face”, found my stream, and assumed I was ONE OF THEM – and the rest did as Simon said. I’ve been blocking people who constantly tweet at me by mistake (they were filling my screen with retweeted hellos), so the Recovering Alcoholics of Twitter and the idiots who think I am their friend in Thailand despite my repeatedly telling them that they don’t need to see my identification and I am not the Kimli they are looking for (I can go about my business; move along) can all suck it – blocked blocked blocked. Their lack of exquisite, finely honed internet etiquette – such as the one I’ve acquired through being online for 20 years – is a distinct pain in my super high ass.