My good friend has a site where (almost) daily, he casts his witticisms across cyberspace and his readership eagerly awaits the next batch of dirty laundry to be deposited into the textual hamper. Airing of this sort is desired and encouraged, but then again, it's completely proverbial.
Last week the stomach flu hosted a demolition derby in my gastrointestinal system. I was also summoned to jury duty on Monday morning. In short, I was fucked. But the law-abiding, god-fearing, politically-astute, socially-sensitive, Jerry Falwell-masturbatory-fantasizing citizen in me decided that I should at least show in person at the court house to avoid any legal repercussions. I showed up two hours late--I never listed "punctual" above.
I was redirected to a different depressing legal establishment a few blocks away where in a matter of 30 seconds the clerk assigned me a new date. By that point I had visions of my bed and tall glasses of Alka Seltzer dancing in my head.
After arriving home, I couldn't tear my clothes off fast enough in my bedroom. As my jeans hit the floor, I noticed something dangling out of the left leg. It was a pair of underwear. Dirty underwear. Peculiar, since I was already wearing underwear. It dawned on me that they probably got stuck in there the last time I wore the jeans and didn't realize it.
Therefore I walked around Centre St., two courthouses, and took a round trip on the 1 train with dirty drawers peeking out at the world from my pant leg like a curious groundhog. Now, if that's not airing some serious dirty laundry, friends, I don't know what is. Just another reason why I should really never leave my apartment...
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