THE SHITS

THE SHITS

I live on a busy street. Opportunity knocked but I didn’t hear it. I was out on the balcony having a fag. I was watching a couple walk past fighting. The woman stopped walking and started shouting and gesticulating. I couldn’t hear what she was shouting but I saw the way she looked at him. She looked like she hated him. His head was down resigned to his fate. I knew the dynamic. Every relationship is a mixture of love and hate. A man must continuously prove his worth. She looked up at me and the look of hate vanished into inquisitiveness. She was looking for a new man. I didn’t want to be her new man. I looked away and drew on the smoke

The phone rang so I went inside and saw it was my mate. He told me he would drop by to pick me up in a little bit. He was coming to take me out drinking. I told him I’m sorry, I can’t come tonight. He started shouting down the phone at me. I had to take it away from my ear. When he’d finished shouting I asked him if he would like to hear why? He started shouting at me again. He wasn’t interested in why I couldn’t come out drinking. He was just angry ‘cause I couldn’t. I shouted at him that I had diarrhoea. I told him that I’d had the shits for almost a whole week. He spat down the phone that he didn’t believe me. He kept shouting so I hung up

I was angry so swung a big punch through the air. The swing made me fart. It smelled terrible. I put my hand down the back of my pants. My hand came back out covered in runny apricot coloured pooh. I went into the bathroom and transferred on to my shower chair. I‘ve been having watery shits. I’ve gone through two packets of Imodium and countless pairs of undies. I have no control over my bowels so I’ve trained my body to go for a shit once a day in the morning with three enemas. My friend was angry because I have no control. Imagine how I feel? During the past week I’ve shit my pants twice. I would have loved to have gone out for a drink. It’s a good thing I didn’t. It’s a good thing I didn’t get drunk. They’d made me so mad I probably would have glassed them

The situation had me fuming. I rang my friend back and told them, you know when I say that I’m too sick to go out it’s because I’m too sick to go out. I’m too sick to go out drinking. It’s not because I’m going out somewhere else with someone else. You should know better than anyone how sick I’ve been over the last few years. If I didn’t want to go out I’d tell you. I’m comfortable enough to tell you the truth. The phone clicked. He had hung up on me

I looked out the window and saw the postie walk past. She looked up at me smiling and waved. She called out that I had a parcel. I sprayed my bum with deodorant and went outside to meet her. A beautiful woman walked past us. She walked with the posture of a dancer. The postie dropped my parcel, ran up behind her and grabbed her breasts. The woman screamed and turned around with her fists clenched. Her face glowed like coal. The look on her face changed after she turned to see she’d been assaulted by another woman. She didn’t look as angry. I watched her fists unclench as she said, slut. The postie handed me my parcel and I signed for her

I turned and headed to go back inside. A strange woman walked up to me. She said, so this is where you live. I nodded. She asked me if I remembered her. I didn’t so I told her. She asked me if I had ever heard of Enzyme Re-Programming? Oh Christ, I thought to myself, not another one. I am constantly bombarded with people trying to fix me. It’s normally women. She started telling me that she could fix me if I was willing to spend the money. I told her that it would have to be a therapy recommended by my GP otherwise my insurance company wouldn’t approve it. It would only cost fifteen grand, she said. I told her I didn’t have fifteen grand to spare. She kept talking to me. Every couple of seconds she would have a brainwave. She kept licking the tip of her pen and scribbling something down on a piece of paper. With every thought she would rip it off and hand me a small tear. By the time she had finished figuring out how to fix me I had twelve little scraps. I wondered why she hadn’t given me the whole piece of paper? Fix me? She was too busy trying to fix the world

I got back inside and looked at the scraps in my hand. The Righteous Army think that saving trees will cure man of his fate. We’ve already played our hand and lost. I laughed aloud and scrunched them into a ball. I aimed for the garbage bin before I threw it. I missed. I bent down to pick it up when I farted again. Oh shit. My hand went down the back of my pants but came out clean. Thank fuck for that. I smelled my hand and gagged. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was sunburnt. I had spent too long talking to her and the sun had burnt my flesh. I tore the package open and it was empty but for a small scrap of paper. I turned the piece of paper over. It said, suck it you egg. I heard the phone ringing. It was the son of the builder I used to work for. I told him I had just finished dealing with a nutter. He said, not much has changed then. I had to ask what he meant? He told me I was constantly attracting weirdos on building sites. I asked, really? Yeah, he said, don’t you remember Psycho Sarah? I didn’t. He told me that she would walk past a house we were building ten times a day wearing short skirts. He told me she would bend over right in front of me. He told me she did this until I spoke to her. He told me that I nicknamed her Psycho Sarah. Did I fuck her, I asked? I dunno, he said, probably

I went into the kitchen for another Imodium. I had just popped it in my mouth when I heard the phone ringing. I went into my bedroom and picked it up. It was my mate still shouting. I hung up again and went back into the kitchen. Now what could I eat that won’t give me the shits? I opened the fridge. It was empty. Maybe I should have another cigarette, maybe that would clog me up. I started towards my bedroom when I saw the girl I want to fuck walking past my apartment. I rushed to the glass door, flung it open and cried her name. She heard her name, looked up and saw me. She looked angry. She shot me a stare that told me she hated me. She kept walking. I had blown it with her. It’s a good thing I like to write. On paper I have control. On paper I can shout

Andrew Stuart Buchanan

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