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The last time I shat myself, I was twenty-seven. It happened in Berlin. I still haven't told (most of) you that story. I might. It's a good one.
I used to shit myself a lot. From the time I was seven to the time I was nine or ten, it happened a fair bit. It could come without warning. When you can't feel your ass muscles, you have to coordinate. You can't rely on the urge. You push in the morning, you push in the evening, you push before and after a good meal. That's the best you can do.
That's Axonotmesis for you.
I shat myself before then, too. I was not born trained. I was trained relatively early, though, and had gained enough trust to be relied on to wear underwear without incident before I was quite two. The Internet tells me this is normal. This makes me feel normal, which makes me feel normal. I'm sure you know the feeling of feeling normal, even if you don't always feel that way. I say I'm sure and mean it, because I have to be sure to feel I can relate to you. Relating to you is something I wish to do.
There was a time when my mother's reliance on my wearing underwear without incident was challenged. I was four. A friend was over. We were playing Bert and Ernie. I was Bert--because I preferred Bert--despite my physique and temperament seeming to call me more to the other rôle. (Bert is Sesame Street's analog to the Poohniverse's Rabbit, after all, and Rabbit is my favorite fictional rabbit. Yes, I like him even more than that one. And that one, too. No. I'm serious.) One of the things Bert and Ernie did was observe life from their window. We were doing this. We were also several stories up.
My mother saw us, and decided more of my body was hanging over the dangerous side of the sill than was safe. She responded in the usual manner: she sent me to the bedroom to be spanked. She grabbed a belt. When she lifted her arm to spank me, I told her she couldn't spank me. I had soiled my underwear, I said. Spanking would result in an awful mess. She asked me why I had soiled my underwear, and I told her it was because my friend and I were having so much fun playing that I couldn't bear the interruption. And for the commission of such a base act! I told her this. (I did not tell her this in these words.)
I was told to go to the bathroom and clean myself off. I was quite proud of myself for avoiding the spanking for the minute or two it took me to realize I was cleaning myself off to be spanked. I was spanked. The only other thing I remember about that particular week in my life is that I had been spanked the day before for cutting my own hair. Do you remember Danny's haircut from Kubrick's adaptation of The Shining? That was my haircut. I could see my hair, and it bothered me. I wasn't being spanked for cutting my hair, I was told. I was being spanked for using the adult scissors without supervision.
Another time I was spanked for shitting in the tub. That story involves Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981) action figures, and some shi(f)t(t)y accessorizing on my part. There's this sequence, see, where logs are ridden....
That is a story for another time. I am likely to tell it before I tell the story of shitting myself in Berlin.
Some day, if you are nice, I may relate to you my five-part "MasterPee Theatre."
I used to shit myself a lot. From the time I was seven to the time I was nine or ten, it happened a fair bit. It could come without warning. When you can't feel your ass muscles, you have to coordinate. You can't rely on the urge. You push in the morning, you push in the evening, you push before and after a good meal. That's the best you can do.
That's Axonotmesis for you.
I shat myself before then, too. I was not born trained. I was trained relatively early, though, and had gained enough trust to be relied on to wear underwear without incident before I was quite two. The Internet tells me this is normal. This makes me feel normal, which makes me feel normal. I'm sure you know the feeling of feeling normal, even if you don't always feel that way. I say I'm sure and mean it, because I have to be sure to feel I can relate to you. Relating to you is something I wish to do.
There was a time when my mother's reliance on my wearing underwear without incident was challenged. I was four. A friend was over. We were playing Bert and Ernie. I was Bert--because I preferred Bert--despite my physique and temperament seeming to call me more to the other rôle. (Bert is Sesame Street's analog to the Poohniverse's Rabbit, after all, and Rabbit is my favorite fictional rabbit. Yes, I like him even more than that one. And that one, too. No. I'm serious.) One of the things Bert and Ernie did was observe life from their window. We were doing this. We were also several stories up.
My mother saw us, and decided more of my body was hanging over the dangerous side of the sill than was safe. She responded in the usual manner: she sent me to the bedroom to be spanked. She grabbed a belt. When she lifted her arm to spank me, I told her she couldn't spank me. I had soiled my underwear, I said. Spanking would result in an awful mess. She asked me why I had soiled my underwear, and I told her it was because my friend and I were having so much fun playing that I couldn't bear the interruption. And for the commission of such a base act! I told her this. (I did not tell her this in these words.)
I was told to go to the bathroom and clean myself off. I was quite proud of myself for avoiding the spanking for the minute or two it took me to realize I was cleaning myself off to be spanked. I was spanked. The only other thing I remember about that particular week in my life is that I had been spanked the day before for cutting my own hair. Do you remember Danny's haircut from Kubrick's adaptation of The Shining? That was my haircut. I could see my hair, and it bothered me. I wasn't being spanked for cutting my hair, I was told. I was being spanked for using the adult scissors without supervision.
Another time I was spanked for shitting in the tub. That story involves Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981) action figures, and some shi(f)t(t)y accessorizing on my part. There's this sequence, see, where logs are ridden....
That is a story for another time. I am likely to tell it before I tell the story of shitting myself in Berlin.
Some day, if you are nice, I may relate to you my five-part "MasterPee Theatre."
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pissed off