It started out like any other good night of drinking with friends. My dear friend (who I'm referring to as HomeGirl) was in town from Arizona and we'd grabbed some booze and headed back to my place where one of my guy friends met us. In typical fashion, we were sprawled out on my living room floor, laughing, when I first noticed that my guy friend was getting way more drunk than the rest of us. However with the sheer volume that I hang out with/entertain drunkards, I decided that it wasn't TOO big of a deal and made a mental note to make sure I took his keys.
When we decided to make a fast food run, HomeGirl and I made the executive decision to leave him behind so that we didn't have to deal with the distraction of a drunk manchild in the back seat. By that point, he was also going through what I like to call Boozey Bipolar Disorder, in which, the intoxicated person cannot decide if they love you or hate you. He was on a particularly interesting hate binge when we left, but I figured he'd get over it by the time we returned and fed him french fries.
We got back and found him stumbling around in my front yard with no shoes on and a wine glass full of whiskey. He started to whine the second we got out of the car, "Where the fuck did you go? I still need to talk to you about some things. Are those fries? I want some of those fries..."
I mean, seriously. He was worse than Carl in Walking Dead, just STAY IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE AND THEN ZOMBIES DO NOT TRY TO EAT YOU. This is why we can't have nice things, boys, this is why we cannot have nice things.
After breaking his ridiculously strong grip on the wine glass and enticing him with food, we got him back upstairs where he proceeded to try to steal HomeGirl's fries and switched back over to hating me with a renewed energy.
"You just don't understand what I'm saying. And you're not even trying to understand what I'm saying, you're just so closed-off to that whole side of human experience, you're never going to be able to fully experience all the experiences you could experience..." he rambled, "You can't get a boyfriend if you keep saying no to people that want to be your boyfriend."
I went to sleep after hiding his keys and woke up a few hours later to a LOUD pounding sound. Hearing HomeGirl get up and let someone in, I rolled over and went back to sleep, not really thinking much of anything.
I woke up the next morning with a headache and sat up to see my guy friend wrapped in a blanket, snoring. Rolling my eyes, I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom to assess my intensely tragic smeared eyeliner situation. Looking down, I noticed there was a pair of boxers sitting on the floor. I looked over to the tub where one sock was dangling from the edge and some soapy water was still glistening, indicating that someone had recently bathed. And lost an epic battle with their clothes.
Confused, I peered into my bedroom and saw my guy friend's jeans crumpled on the floor. Not willing to investigate any further alone, I walked out to where HomeGirl had made a bed for herself on the couch and questioned, "Did he seriously take a shower? What the hell happened last night?"
"Dude, did you hear him when I let him in the house?" she questioned, sitting up suddenly, "Did you hear what he said to me?"
"I heard the knocking but I didn't hear what he said. Why the hell was he even outside?" I questioned, cursing him again for his Carl-like tendencies. Stay inside the effing house, bro, then zombies do not try to eat you.
"He wasn't even outside, he was in that little back staircase through your kitchen door. He got locked out there somehow and when I opened the door, he rushed inside and was all out of breath and shaking and said, 'I was locked in there for an hour and I... I totally SHIT MYSELF!" she finished, waiting for my reaction, which was something like this:
"He SHIT his pants?" I asked, trying to process the information, "Wait, what the fuck is he wearing right now? Why was he even back there? You literally have to walk straight by the bathroom to get to that kitchen door..."
"I didn't even really look, I just went back to bed," she admitted, "But I think he like actually shit himself on the other side of the door right there. I could like smell it... I can still kinda smell it..."
"Did he clean it up? I mean, what if there's like a pile of poop on the other side of the door?" I asked, starting to smell the distinct odor of explosive diarrhea wafting through the back half of my apartment as we walked through my kitchen. Looking down to make sure I wasn't trekking through anything nasty, I opened the back kitchen door and looked down at the rug.
Shit. Explosion.
Both of us gagging, we got out to the living room as fast as possible and started lighting every single candle I owned. Determined and slightly satisfied with the fog of room spray I'd just unleashed, I walked into my bedroom (still carrying the bottom of room spray) with HomeGirl trailing behind me at a safe distance to lift the blanket and see what he was wearing.
And all I saw was...
Hairy.
Boy.
Ass.
Covering my face to try to block some of the smell, I dropped the blanket and nudged him with my foot. I kicked him a little harder until he rolled over, looked up at me with a smile on his face and questioned, "You okay, babe? You look like you're sick or something."
Not one to normally sugarcoat, I arched a 'impressive-even-for-me' eyebrow and asked, "Can you seriously not smell yourself?"
He frowned a little, "huh?" and sat up where I was witness to the most obvious progression of confusion to pure panic in under three seconds:
"Do you remember the end of last night?" I asked him.
"Not really," he grinned a little sheepishly, "Why?"
"You shit yourself," I answered honestly, "And then apparently took a shower, stripped down all of your shitty clothes and passed out half-naked on my floor."
I have navigated some truly awkward moments in my life, but I will tell you this, there's nothing quite like having to break the news to someone that they defecated on themselves in your apartment. Or as the case may be, right outside of your apartment on your rug.
"I... what... I...?" he stuttered, squinting at where HomeGirl was trying to muffle a half-strangled little laugh that managed to escape her, "I shit myself? I seriously.."
"You seriously shit your pants. Apparently, you got locked out in that little back hallway. I have no idea how you got there or how it locked behind you, but there's some still out there and we have to go have brunch with a friend so I don't know what you want to do about that...but... yeah," I finished.
The next ten minutes consisted of HomeGirl and I sitting on the couch while he rambled through the apartment, discovering new bits of evidence and repeating over and over again (at varying levels of volume), "I can't believe I seriously SHAT myself. I SHAT my PANTS. I don't even... how does that happen? How is this something that happens?"
Embarrassed to have something like this happen, especially when just meeting HomeGirl for the first time, he apologized to her to which she responded,
"Eh.. shit happens."
Sometimes, quite literally.
HomeGirl and I left to go meet other friends for brunch after Sir Shits A Lot (as I've now dubbed him) promised to clean up before he left. We returned five hours later and although the bathroom was clean, he had passed out again in my bed. When he finally got up to leave, in quite possibly, the shittiest (pun intended) mood I'd ever seen him in, I noticed that he had put on a pair of my jeans to wear.
And then, at my request, he took the rug with him.
For those of you who don't know, I live on a fairly busy street and I will never EVER be able to erase the memory of him walking across the street, in my fit-flare jeans, carrying a rug with HUGE brown stains all over it. My eyes cannot unsee what they have seeeeeen.
It was a literal shitshow.
Despite all this, me and Sir Shits A Lot are still friends. And to make up for his lack of bowel control, he did bring me pizza, flowers and an array of cleaning supplies.
Although, to be real, the flowers just made me a little depressed because he's the first boy in YEARS that has gotten me flowers and it was as a result of alcohol making him forget that he is, indeed, potty-trained.
I mean, honestly.
Who gets 'sorry, I got shit-faced drunk and then shit on your stoop' flowers?
Me.
Only me.
Meanwhile, in my actual love life:
:) just not enough vodka that you shit your pants because people will mock you forever.
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