Please allow me to tell an interesting self-fiction:
This morning I woke up to discover a pink elephant lying on my tummy.
No, wait. Scratch that – it’s too fictional.
This morning I woke up with one hell of headache, some might say a hangover (much better). I rolled out of bed, muttered the title of God with a distinctive –y, and made my way to the bathroom in haphazard fashion, the whole time struggling to recall everything I had to do today.
I did my morning tinkle, scratched my rear, and made my way over to the bathroom window, a long, bedroom-type window, not at all like the one you’d expect, those bathroom windows that are high on the wall and fog-glassed. Nope, this is a regular old window. So I pulled open the plastic blinds and looked outside. Down below a group of neighborhood kids were riding around on their bikes.
They looked up.
I looked down.
...and realized I hadn’t pulled my PJs up after peeing.
PANIC NOTE: In some states they organize legal lynch mobs for exposing yourself to children.
Now what I did next I’ll never understand – instead of pulling my PJs up, I grabbed the string operating the blinds and released its locking mechanism, allowing them to fall with guillotine speed, or more like geldotine speed, because it landed right on my penis!
Ladies, if your self-defense instructor hasn’t told you already, the male genitalia is an extremely sensitive area of the body, capable of profound levels of both pleasure and pain.
So instead of covering my nudity from the children, I put on a show worthy of DeSade’s imagination, hammering my penis with the blinds and falling back in agony. And I swear I heard the little buggers laughing hysterically.
So that was my morning. Self-fictionally anyway.
The sad fact is that there was no exposure, or pseudo-castration for that matter. I wasn’t even hung-over. I just woke up like you all did, made my way to the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, took a shower, combed, shaved, scrubbed, rinsed, patted, plucked, deodorized, and then looked in the mirror and wondered why every day had to be so everyday.
NOTE TO SELF: Dear Mr. Mitty, next time make your life interesting by imagining Tera Patrick knocking on your door, instead of random acts of self-mutilation.