Lemme Tell You a Wake-Up Story

Warning: Adult Language

The Shit Theory

Nashville (https://thesickandthedating.com/2016/01/18/i-saw-another-ghost/) sent me messages saying, “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me.” When I asked him why he ghosted me, he just said, “Don’t be mad” again. He “hates to fight.” Then he said he didn’t call me back for a few weeks because he “had his dog.” Zero explanation, unless that dog dials his phone for him. No response at all to my repeated asking of why he disappeared. I even resorted to saying, “Did my infection make you uncomfortable?” I mean, seriously, I would say the words for him if he couldn’t. But he couldn’t even respond to that. So I told him that if he can’t communicate with me, then there’s no point in seeing each other anymore.

I know he’s sleeping right now because he wakes up right before he has to go in for his third shift hours. When he wakes up, if he gets all whiny again, I’ve decided I’ll have to lay the shit theory on him. It’s something I’ve thought up just this afternoon that I think will explain what I see happening and what I think he needs to do.

Most of us who have had chronic illnesses for years (or even decades) are familiar with the “spoon theory” that a very clever woman came up with on the fly to teach her good friend about what it’s like to have a chronic condition that greatly affects the quality of life. Sufferers have even self-identified as “spoonies,” which makes it hella easy to find each other online.

I don’t expect this theory to find the same fame, but it would be funny if it did.

Okay, let’s say Nashville got up from a full 7 hours of sleep and did his business in the toilet, including a #2. (I know dudes are super regular like that, all of them that I’ve lived with are like clockwork.) But instead of flushing his shit down the toilet, he reaches down into the bowl and picks up the shit. He looks around the bathroom, and then he starts smearing. He gets a good amount on the floor and the shit cakes up a bit in the grout between the tiles. He also goes for the walls – big smears, maybe some letters. He even saves some shit for the sink and the dookie gets into the joints of the faucet handle. Nashville stands there for a minute, looks at the shit on his hands and fingers, and then yells for me. I come to the door, take one look and I say, “What the fuck, Nashville? Why did you smear shit all over the bathroom?” He says, “Don’t be mad at me. I have to go watch my dog wag her tail.” I say again, “Why the fuck did you smear shit all over every single part of the bathroom instead of just flushing it down the toilet like a healthy person?” Nashville says, “I don’t want you to be mad at me. Can you stop being mad at me? I love my dog.”

Nashville (as well as many people in general) claims he hates chaos. Chaos = shit, in this story. He could have just flushed the shit down the pipes. In other words, if you don’t want chaos, then don’t bring it into your world. You have a choice. If you choose to reach down into the bowl, cradle it in your hands and start smearing it around, it’s not okay to 1. Keep doing it until it’s in every nook and cranny of your life (no matter how much you B.S. yourself that you’re keeping it separate), and 2. Ask for someone to clean up the shit that you chose to spread. Certainly don’t ignore it (as Nashville did when he ignored my questions). All it’s gonna do is dry where it sits and be even harder to clean (aka all I’m going to do is get pissed, and he’s STILL going to have to deal with it). Sometimes a person has to hire a plumber (psychiatrist, psychologist or counselor) to help figure out clogs in the pipes (brain), but it’s better to take care of that sort of thing before the problem becomes completely out of control.

So, Nashville, the moral of the story is: Clean up your own shit.

The End

 

 

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