Assholes

Okay, it’s too much. If I implied that it wasn’t, forgive me, I was wrong.

Last week I read advice on how to take the best selfie of your asshole. It was in a newsletter for men that happens to offer a fun modern take on pop culture. The advice was not meant for me, clearly, but nevertheless she persisted.

The advice made me sad, in a deep 3 am dark night of the soul type of way. Inexpressibly sad. We have come to this, the need to capture our very asshole in the best light, for the admiration of others.

We are our own assholes. All roads lead to assholes.

We crave toilet paper. We joke about it but still look for it on Amazon. Our family members reveal the purchase of bidets from a company called “Tushy.”

The word Tushy brings a whole new cascade of agony and regret. A close friend nearly kills himself when I email him about Tushy. At least I’m not alone in the universe where a single wrong word plunges one into the abyss.

I have had many dreams about overflowing toilets, with shit everywhere. Is this a metaphor for life itself, a pile of unmanageable shit? When I told my sister about the dreams, she assured me that she’s had them too. Is that good or bad?

Now, assholes are everywhere, sharing their personal tales about how they’re spending their time in lock-down. Each asshole feels it’s important to speak their Truth about their Journey.

Here’s a quick list of what I don’t want, in case you need corroboration of your own rage:

Recipes
Exercise routines
Pictures of your cat (or asshole)
funny stories about your domestic conflicts
Cute photos of your beautiful children
Crafts and craft suggestions
Reflections on what you miss most
Platitudes
Silver linings
Amateur or professional performances with guitar or piano

I am starting fights with people, in real life and online. I can’t seem to stop being an asshole, the asshole I’ve always been but now somehow exaggerated in the absence of the usual distractions and inhibitors.

On Instagram, I commented on a nude performance artist, “she loves to be naked and yet so waxed.” This brought down the wrath of everyone across the globe. What kind of feminist was I??? I was a “diet totalitarian!” Why couldn’t I just be positive??

HOW SHOULD I KNOW, FFS! I AM JUST ANOTHER ASSHOLE!

Walking the dog and wearing a pair of Uniqlo boxers over my face, joggers and skateboarders race past me, unmasked. I mutter, “Wear a fucking mask motherfucker”, feeling my own spittle hit the boxers and fly back in my face.

The boxers once covered my ass, I now realize.

And the ex-wife just published her monthly journal thing, comparing herself to the Little Engine That Could.

I cant. I can’t even. I know I can’t, I know I can’t, I just can’t.