July 19, 2013

Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Gross Carpet

From Polly Math, who is unimpressed with his shitball shag rug,
Like newborn foals on untested legs, we ascended the cracked risers to his apartment, atonally slurring "Blurred Lines" with intent. He scooped me into his arms and carried me into his bedroom. In the morning, with limbs entangled, I woke-up groggy and in need of a bathroom and a glass of water. I know; I’ll slip out and take care of business, then slip back and see what’s up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet screeching to a stop inches short of his floor. Hell no, I’m not stepping on his carpet. It’s funkier than the inside of a rented bowling shoe during a Lysol shortage. How did I never notice this before? 
Frozen, balanced awkwardly off the side of this island of springs and sheets afloat upon a veritable crime scene I wonder, where the fuck are my shoes? 
I am dehydrated. I have to pee. 
I frantically eyeball the room scanning for my silver Via Spigas. Seriously. Where are my goddamned shoes? My mojito-mangled memories from last night aren’t hocking up a clue. I mentally run through our homecoming. Oh yeah. The great Saturday Night Scooping. Was that on purpose? The horror. 
Like an oasis in the desert of a shitty Queen Village apartment, I realize the hardwood in the hallway is too far for a straight jump.  
I'd kill for a beanbag chair to jump on 
With urgency growing, it’s about now that, contrary to what I remember of last night, I realize my years of childhood gymnastics had been for nothing. The ironing board, standing as a silent witness to his filth, might have served as a balance beam from which I could have vaulted out the door, if a front handspring was still an option. Where’s McKayla Maroney when I need her? If only I could traverse his bookshelf, run Parkour off his dresser, or Spider-Man his walls. What I really need right now are some sweet Cirque du Soleil skills. 
If you want to play “Name That Stain!”, I’ve got the floor for you. Does this dude not own a vacuum? File that under “Questions I don’t ask because I can’t handle the truth.” I could die of dehydration, but this bladder won’t wait. Saints alive! What the fuck did I just step in?! Newsflash: Carpet is not supposed to be crunchy. If I wanted dog fur stuck to my foot, I’d get a dog. You couldn’t pay me to check for crawling things, but it doesn't take a genius to know we’ve entered Groupon territory. Stanley Steem what’s left of this low pile, Gomer!


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