Routinely we’re wrapped up in the wrong things. We, humans, spend an awful heap of scheduling too much rambunctious reaction to life’s lobs. It’s like the very first caveperson to balk at burying their mammoth complaints craze of fury received some ridiculous bodyless animal-head reward. The rest became a ripple of history rife with losing a good grip by adopting rants to rage. I don’t understand the want to remain gloomy losers rotating dismal impatience on repeat. Lost in our selfish side, we forget the farcical nature of affairs. Heavily encouraged to condemn, we’re minus the charm from joining the joke. We often act as if we’re allergic to positivity. Instead, I keep looking to spread the idea that laughing versus losing it earns you happier days. If you’ve surmised that part of your destiny is getting dumped on, I’d say this is exactly the right speed with which you should align.
… as someone once told me, your emotions follow your intent. If you create the intention of starting a comedy act, slowly your mind starts adjusting and you arrive at a new emotional state. ~Steve Martin
My calendar chimed the alert twenty-four hours before my liquid diet was plotted to begin. I’d raked in a ton of hilarity emojis from family and friends hearing that I’d been able to organize my fiftieth birthday ‘gift’ of my inaugural colonoscopy so readily post-Thanksgiving stuffing-fest. We quipped back and forth about how I’d be one of the few people stabilizing my feasting with colonic-chic counter-balancing. My pandemic muffin-bump seemed to have rudely, assisted by quickly, grown a turkey baby atop. All with no pregnancies here to wag the finger about. However, upon review of my pre-op instructions, I noticed a discrepancy. My doctor’s laxatives medication didn’t match their office notes handed to me. Despite my meager math skills, I had two bottles amounting to double the dosage listed for intake. The nurse on duty giggled with me over a call to confirm my paperwork colon-catch.
Holy CRAP, that would have busted the bathroom pipes! I lightened my lack of holding onto gluttony for a more lengthy duration with waxing comedic about what a smellier scene I might have created had I not bothered to question the opposition between 255 to 510 milligrams of purgative powder in one’s system prior to rectal probing. May all of your witty poop humor let loose! This entire poopy prescription juncture was cause for another outreach solicitation. A second survey of my administrative anal documents allowed clear fluids only. I remembered my cousin supplied yummy bone broth for my last procedure. Having now triple-checked the prep with my physician’s team, I texted said family to ask to ‘bum’ any leftovers. A short while later, Tutu taxi arrived at the driveway to drop a socially-distanced grocery pack replete with a couple cushy toilet rolls to soften my ‘load’ ahead.
I felt all set to bear the ‘bottoms-up’ date with a ‘John’. Nonetheless, walking back toward my ohana-land escape my eyes spotted an errant beer can under, as opposed to tucked in, the recycling bin. Astray aluminum wasn’t merely a wifey eyesore, it offered the November Pacific wintery wind gusts a poor toy with which to play. I stooped low to the ground, simultaneously stretching my left arm beneath the trash to grab the drink while transferring the goodies bag into my right arm. Yet, the sound of a rip, luckily not from my knickers, startled me. There, rolling down the freshly rain-soaked, rich-soiled hill went plush tushy tissue and four lilikoi fruit treats sooner than I could stop them. Not one to kick myself for a good deed upturned and although juggling was never my specialty, I managed to stack everything in one swoop making it indoors to rest all straddling my clean dishes laid out to dry at the kitchen sink.
As I spun around to take out the compost, in hopes of preceding the next batch of raindrops deluge, the corner of my eye wondered what had happened to my prized ass-wipes suddenly out of sight? The already-dirty-from-the-outdoors crapper throne trophies were instantly sopping imbibing all the wetness at the base of the drain from my recent washing. It was barely eleven in the morning. My control teetered at leading with an alleged stinky spell. As similarly as the wind rouses your tendrils into strangular rip curls that aren’t nearly as sweet as the surf kind just when you aim to snap that stylish selfie, you select the takeaway. Sure, your appearance packaged neatly is becoming, but don’t hurry from loving your goofier flashbacks further. The moral is reckoning why inferior BS assumes crappy is better than amazeballs cackling. The key is that fancier pants contrast with discovering any shitshow sits within your capably considerations-friendly senses. Rather, I prefer to be rolling regal with poopster punches.
May your amusing indulgences conveniently clobber any irritation.