My mind wanders through inaneville when I take a 3-5 minute on-a-whim-shit, an unplanned evening, or late afternoon, shit, one that doesn’t need to be lured by freshly percolated coffee.
Often, parading curiously through my weird ass brain is the origin of words: Who decided to call fluffy white squares marshmallows? Molestation, why marry “mole” and “station”, two perfectly independent, doable words and turn them into a big fuckin’ nightmare. Who was the decision maker behind that gem? Nomenclature screams mutton chops. One of the meanings of nomenclature is dictionary, vocabulary or glossary. Loving words, I should have an affinity for this one. I just can’t get behind nomenclature; it sounds and feels like decrepit, beyond repair, vintage furniture. And we all know how much Katie loves vinty everything.
Last night’s on-a-whim-shit, my mind wandered, of course. What popped into my head wasn’t a word; it was a thought: I wonder what my psychiatrist looks like when he takes a dump. Does he push? Or let it roll? Does he read? If so, what’s his preference, doctorly mags or self-indulgent reads, like auto magazines, gossip rags, or self-helpy Deepak Chopra dish? Does his mind wander, too? Does he worry about hemorrhoids if he's on the can too long? Does he go through the medical process of shitting?
I was OCD'ng so hard about this for 2 minees that I forgot to make my on-a-whim shit. The shame...