Every time someone is on their way to our house I'm overcome with a driving compulsion to run for the cleaning supplies and scrub the newly blossoming life from the surface of our toilet. Let's be honest, no toilet can ever really be clean enough, and what if – what if – your kindly guests wanted to use the bathroom to make with the bowel waters, or even worse, what if they were overcome by the sudden need to vomit directly into your porcelain basin with their sweaty, pasty eyeballs inches from what may lie beneath? BECAUSE WHAT IF THAT HAPPENED.
I like for the house to be tidy in general, but even as the dog hair floats past your feet in dusty little brambles you can bet your ass I cleaned the damn toilet before you came over. The better for you to vomit in, my dear. If you're ever caught out on the street with the sudden need to hurl some chunks I'll be your safety net; I'll be your girl.
Jon is irrationally annoyed by this behavior, something that makes almost as little sense as anything Terry Gilliam ever made. What could possibly be wrong with wanting a nice clean peebucket? If, for instance, your guests didn't show or IF, hypothetically, they never had a visit from the Grand Bowel Wizard, well then you still have a nice clean toilet that you don't have to clean later, amirite? There is only light here with no darkness; there is no bad side to this omelet. But I can sympathize, I'm sure it must be very difficult for him to stand in the general vicinity and not watch me scrubbing away the butt-murder.
I can't remember for one hair of a second there ever being a dirty toilet in our house when I was growing up, something which was a testament to my mother's dedication but also an alarming jerk into the vastness of reality when I moved out and hey, toilets are kind of gross. You clean them and a week flies by in the blink of an eye and suddenly you look down and the curséd machine needs to be oiled again, a lesson in the futility of life's maintenance.
So before people come over I scrub and wipe and spray and once we can all vomit across the sky with unfettered abandon I breathe a sigh of relief. It's a strange place to contemplate the vastness of the universe, the cool force of the tiles the metaphysical wind through my fingers, but what more comfort can there be in the universe than the sudden knowledge that all humans have, at
one point or another, found themselves on their hands and knees forced
into battle with the reality of their own visceral existence, paying
most-worthy tribute wrist-deep in shit.