I gotta pee like a racehorse.

Andria: Hey, Jesus Freak. It's Andria, your old neighbor.
Jesus Freak: Oh, hey, Andria.
Andria: So, how's it going? How was the move?
Jesus Freak: Oh, you know, moving. But I am just glad it's over now.
Andria: Yeah, I don't blame you there!! I hate moving! You know what I did right before I left my last apartment?
Jesus Freak: What?
Andria: I told the landlord what a goddamn whore his daughter was. That was so awesome.
Jesus Freak: ...Uh... ok.
Andria: Did you think I wouldn't find out? Whose GODDAMN business is it what OR WHO I do?
Jesus Freak: What? I didn't... I don't... I have to go.
Andria: Fuck you. If you can spread shit about me TO MY PARENTS, you can listen for a minute. You know, for almost five years, I lived next door to you and never said one thing to you about how much of a religious fucking freak I think you are. You know why? Because I don't think I'm any better than you.

Even though, secretly, I clearly do.

Jesus Freak: Look, I didn't mean anything -
Andria: Wrong.
Jesus Freak: Huh?
Andria: Bullshit you didn't mean anything by it. You obviously wanted to make me look bad in front of my parents. So, I just wanted to say fuck you, fuck all your GODDAMN religious bullshit and judgement, and that I hope one day someone fucks with you like this.
Jesus Freak: Blah blah repent blah blah the lord blah blah judgement day blah blah.

She went on for a few minutes with her preaching, and I don't remember all of it. Just key words.

Andria: Hey, Jesus Freak. Isn't it a sin to live with your boyfriend and engage in lots of loud, pre-marital sex? Sometimes with your front door open, where your unsuspecting neighbor who is bringing over a piece of your mail that she had by mistake might hear?

*click*

---

Today was a shitty day at work.

LITERALLY.

Around eleven this morning, I got an email asking me to call a plumber, because the toilet downstairs was making gurgling noises, and then it just filled with water when they tried to flush it.

So I called my favorite gay plumber, Butch to come and save the day.

Soccer Mom, who's sort of like the "facility manager", went down to investigate the damage and see what was going on. While she was down there, one of the downstairs people came up to use our bathroom, and as soon as he flushed, the toilet downstairs exploded, sending little brown logs all over the bathroom (why don't people shit at home?!).

And it kept flooding, and more shit kept coming up. I laughed, because it was funny, and all those suckers downstairs not only had no bathroom to use, but they had to deal with the crappy smell.

I laughed until Butch came up and told me to tell everyone that no one was allowed to use any water in the entire building. Dammit. That meant we had no toilet to use, either. And the very second he said "no water," I immediately had to pee. Bad.

I started thinking of all the businesses on our block, and where there was a public bathroom I could start directing all the people in the office who were going to go batshit crazy once they realized they couldn't sit on the toilet in our office and read The Wall Street Journal for an hour.

I told Celestia to get the phones, and that I was out on a search to find a place to pee. I held it as long as I could, but I was starting to do the pee-pee dance, so I figured I better take care of it. I was hoping to go the the mexican food place next door, but I remembered they're closed on Mondays. I went to the dry-cleaners, who I have a tumultuous relationship with (meaning I hate them with a fiery passion, and they laugh at how mad I get at their stupid business), and they basicall told me to fuck off. I went to Starbucks, and their bathroom was being fixed, and told me the only available one was "for employees only." Nevermind I go in there almost every fucking day spending my money, and they know me. Goddamn them.

At this point, I felt like my bladder was going to pop. I went to the Coffee Bean, across the street from Starbucks, and the bathroom there smelled like something dead came out of someone's ass and made me gag. I couldn't go there, either.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All I wanted to do was urinate, goddammit.

My last effort was at an office building across the street, where we used to occupy some space (the same building the prick whose car got repo'd a few weeks ago works). I knew exactly where the ladies room was, so as soon as I got off the elevator, I headed right for it. Unfortunately, I ran into the asshole building owner JP, who hates me and all my other co-workers (mostly ex-co-worker Crackhead, who tormented that man on a daily basis).

"What are you doing here?" He stood in front of me, blocking my path to the promised land, aka the bathroom.

"Uh... I have to pick up some loan docs at the Keller Williams office."

Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee.

"For who? For Mr. Big Shot?"

"Uh, yeah. For Mr. Big Shot. I have to get them RIGHT NOW!"

"I don't think so."

At this point, my thighs were clenched so tightly together that I couldn't walk straight. They're sore right now, six hours later, if that gives any indication.

"Ok. Look, JP. Our toilets are backed up, and we can't use them. I have gone to Starbucks, The Coffee Bean, the Dry Cleaners, Casa Pulidio, and the hair salon. I just want to use the bathroom. Then I'll be gone forever. I promise. Please! You have no idea."

"No."

"What?!"

"No. Those bathrooms are for tenants of THIS building only. Find another one."

"Alright. Either you be the nicest person ever and let me use the bathroom, or seriously, I will piss on your carpet. It's your decision. And, FYI, I got about 20 seconds, and then I can't be held responsible for what happens."

"Fine. Don't tell anyone I let you over here. I don't want all of THOSE people over here backing up MY toilets."

Before he even finished, I practically knocked him down to get by him and to the bathroom.

I am not joking when I say I had a little orgasm when I finally got to go.

Good times.

---

I saw a few minutes of "Rock Star: INXS" tonight. Oh, how sad it all is.

It was so cheesy. It was like "American Idol" with electric guitars.

They just tried too hard to be rockers, when they seemed more like rock lounge singers.

If I didn't think Michael Hutchense was busy doing freaky kinky things with Paula Yates in the afterlife, I'd say he was probably rolling over in his grave.