Let's be honest here. I know I have problems. And if you've been reading this blog for awhile, you know I have problems, too. It's pretty obvious that the thoughts that form in my scattered little brain tend to wander toward the 'WTF?!' side of the 'I iz Thinkin' scale. I mean, people shouldn't think the things I think about. Couple that with the fact that I somehow involuntarily incorporate Twilight into EVERYTHING... well, yeah, I'm weird. I'm pretty sure that if I looked at one my braincells under a microscope it would be waving a copy of the Twilight DVD at me. Or holding a glass of wine. Possibly both.
Case in point - The other day a pipe burst in our office building, rendering all the ladies rooms out of commission on eight floors. That meant that eight floors worth of all those ladies were trucking down to my floor to use our single handicapped stall. Not good. For anyone. You know how long bitches take in the bathroom.
Then, to make matters even worse, they shut off the water to the coffee maker. This might seem like a blessing of sorts given the way coffee goes right through me, until I remembered that no caffeine makes Jenny Jerkface really fucking pissy.
Naturally, I send my lament to STY:
Omg, no ladies rooms!! Why do I have a feeling my bladder and/or bowels are suddenly going to kick into overdrive?! I bet I'll end up with some strange Montezuma's-Revenge-like symptoms today because that's just my crappy (ha!) luck...
And, that's not the worst of it!! NO coffee!! WTF am I going to do? The Starbucks across the street is just too far! So is that little french deli place next door. And the bodega on the corner. And the Starbucks on the next block.
[Let it be said that I will hoof it ten blocks (and back!) to see RPattz on set but the idea of walking across the street, literally right across the frigging street, for coffee was absolutely unconscionable to me.]
To which my lovely, ever helpful bff responds:
I think you should ask RPattz if you can use the potty in his trailer. And have a sip of his coffee. [I get the feeling that STY's brain cells would look shockingly similar to mine.]
Now, I know that 99.999% of you, when imagining yourself in Rob Pattinson's trailer, would NOT envision taking a dump in his bathroom. Your train of thought would probably be more along the lines of running your fingers through his hair. Or ripping his clothes off (nicely! And with his willing consent!) and introducing his man meat to your lady bits.
Nope, not me. I'm almost ashamed to admit it but the idea of dropping a deuce in his bathroom just struck me as the ultimate, killer thing to do.
I want to be the girl who pooped in Rob Pattinson's trailer.
I write back:
Dude, if I took a poo in RPattz's bathroom, when I come out I demand a red carpet entrance. I want you and all the other twi-bloggers chanting my name triumphantly and throwing rose petals as I descend the stairs. Oh, and I want a tiara, too. Because that would take some serious balls, man. We're talkin' cajones the size of fucking melons.
Who. the. fuck. thinks. these. things? Besides me, I mean? Is there anyone else out there that is also thinking, 'Huh. I'd get bragging rights for years if I dropped a deuce in RPattz's crapper. I could be tellng my grandkids about that shit years to come and be, like, the flyest Grandma ever.' (excuse the pun, I couldn't help myself)
In my defense, STY apparently has some 'problems', too, since she A) was the one who suggested it and B) totally agreed to shower me with rose petals at me if I actually did it AND swore she'd get a Jenny Jerkface tattoo, to boot. She's an enabler, that one.
And, just for the record, if Robert Pattinson ever found out I wrote about defiling his trailer even - I just may finally realize what complete and utter mortification actually feels like. I thought I had that covered, but apparently there's always room to expand...