At 4:15 this morning, just like every workday morning, the alarm went off. I stretched, yawned, farted and smiled... then broke into giggles as I recalled the conversation I had with Timothy last night. I could post about the historical aspects of today's inauguration, about the possible hope for the US, or spout some philosophical bs about new beginnings. But no. I don't want y'all to think for a second that I'm above scatological humor. Besides, Timothy challenged me to write about our conversation... dared me even. Yeah, T? Watch me!
I know I've often said that Timothy is the only person I can say anything and everything to, and not only does he take it... the dude rolls with it. He claims the same about me, and I unabashedly admit to the truth in that. Our conversations take all kinds of oddball twists and turns - he's one of the few people who can take me from near boredom to hysterical laughter to tears and back around to hysterical laughter again. Last night he had me giggling so hard that my cheeks hurt and I nearly had to send out for albuterol (and I don't even have asthma). What had me going? That I can tell you in one word. Poop.
What I can't tell you is exactly how we got on the subject (I do know it was only moments into the phone call though). I only remember him insisting that all women fart (he says I should say poot, but that is far too ladylike for this gypsy). I told him I never do. He said, "You are so full of shit!" I said, "No, I'm not, and that's why I don't fart." And the conversation devolved from there - yes, we can sink even lower. We went on to discuss regularity. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but he asked me if I poop every day. Um. Yeah, I do. And from there it went on to pooping in public... ah, public restrooms, that is... and the ability or disability some people have to, um, perform.
But wait, that's not all! Size and texture were thrown into the mix at some point (long curlies and short stubbies). We then went on to wordplaying "shit"... "So why did you call me?" "Oh, I just wanted to give you shit." "I can't believe some of the conversations we have!" "Eh, shit happens." "Oh, now you're just talkin' shit!"
We also talked about throwing up and/or hucking loogies at the wall... and John (who, at this point, I envisioned sitting on a puffy cloud, sipping some fine tequila, and shaking his head sadly as he tried hard to hide his classic grin). I'm fairly certain that the friendship Timothy and I share wouldn't have evolved into the rustic jewel that it is were John still around, and that kind of made me sad, made my lip feel a bit wobbly... until... Timothy said, "And you know he would jump your shit for...." And I was off again. We were both still giggling madly as we said, "I love you, g'night."
So, my philosophy for today: Good friends are the ones who feel comfortable giving you shit. Really good friends take your shit. But best friends are there for you through all kinds of shit.
(See, T? Told you I would!)