No pretenses

I tried to give Lugosi a bath, so he could be petted without having to wash your hands immediately after. But he's the man of the house, not me — I couldn't get him into the tub, even when it was empty. That dog is huge and stubborn and smells bad, same as this reporter, but shorter.

Instead I swept most of his hair off the steps and out of the hallways, which makes the place look better, and sprayed Lugosi with Lysol, which makes the dog smell better. Then I washed the dishes, scooped the kitty litter, and cleared a corner of the kitchen clutter so a person could maybe make a sandwich or pour a bowl of cereal.

Sarah-Katherine will be here tomorrow, and this huge apartment is still a mess. I've made a reasonable effort to tidy up, because she deserves that, but now I'm out of energy so that'll have to do. I refuse to try harder to make this place, or myself, more presentable.

I like Sarah-Katherine, which is unavoidable, and she likes me, which is inexplicable, and if this place is beneath her standards she (or we?) can get a hotel room.

It's damned unusual for a woman to be (sort of) in my life, especially one who's not mentally discombobulated. (Here's looking at you, Maggie.) Maybe I'm supposed to give her flowers, and make plans to show her the city, but I can't afford flowers, and I'm not a guy who makes plans.

My thinking is — she's read my zine, and knows it's non-fiction. I really am the slob I write about, a blubbery balding boy with chronic flatulence. It would be stupid and pointless to pretend anything else.

I did buy some Gasex pills, so we could maybe chat over the roar from my rectum. Other than that, though — no pretenses.

Oh, and I did five loads of laundry.

And bought deodorant, which smells weird.

And there are breath mints in my pocket.

And I hung an air freshener from the skylight in my room.

And tidied my crewcut and trimmed my beard.

And clipped my fingernails and toenails.

And bought new underwear, because all my old briefs had skid marks.

And put clean sheets and matching pillowslips on the bed, and washed the blanket.

And tomorrow morning, for the first time since the 1970s, I'll make the bed.

Other than that, though — absolutely no pretenses.

From Pathetic Life #14
Wednesday, July 12, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.


  1. getting new underwear should probably be on everyone's higher priority list, skid marks or not. Think about how much time that material spends in our darkest, dankest, smelliest crevices.

  2. Dark, dank, smelly, sure, but I launder the shorts fairly frequently. And my hygiene has improved -- back in the '90s I wore the same undies for a week at a time, but my wife improved me and now I change my shorts every second day, like clockwork.

    Pro tip -- if you turn the shorts inside-out on day two, usually no rash will develop.


The site's software sometimes swallows comments. For less frustration, send an email and I'll post it as a comment.