If it’s not one goddamn thing it’s another, but this time I think my urethra may really kill me. Yes, “this” time, as I’ve suffered from chronic UTIs for the last thousand years or so, something my so-called friend Alice has no appreciation nor sympathy for, since that cunt has never had a UTI in her life. She takes particular cunty glee in the fact that the only time I become ill from the sensation of a fiery barbed stick being repeatedly jammed into my nether regions is approximately 37 hours after having had marital relations. Every. Damn. Time. So yeah, two or three times a year pissing becomes less of a routine bodily function and more of an OH-MY-FUCKING-GOD-MAKE-IT-STOP-MAKE-IT-STOP-MAKE-IT-STOP torture session.
Why I continue to seek commiseration from that cold-hearted healthy-bladdered bitch I don’t know.
Me: Fucking fucking fucking fuck [yeah, because I know what caused this]. I have a UTI and I am going to die.
She: Uh oh.
You did it with [insert Husband’s name—well, actually, penis, that dirty, dirty penis—here]?
Me: No. The old man who walks by our house every day. Was in the mood for some strange.
I was just surprised y’all did it.
If there was ever a sign you shouldn’t do it, I would think your raging UTI would be it. . . LMAO.
Me: We were careful! I made him wash everything. Twice!
She: Too damn bad.
Jesus was watching. Etc, etc.
Me: How are we sinners? We ARE married, after all. To each other, even.
She: Depends on “how” you do it. According to the Catholic Church, certain things are sins no matter what. [Alice is a “lapsed” Catholic, of which I’ve always been envious. I, not ever having been anything, can now never be “lapsed.”]
Me: Oh, wait. We’re probably not married in the eyes of god. Since I divorced the first husband and all. [I did go to the Church of Christ all of the summer before and well into 9th grade with some girls my piano teacher introduced me to when my family moved to a very Church of Christ town. I went along with the hymn singing without organ accompaniment and if people wanted to let the preacher shove their heads under water in a vat of nasty water in front of everybody, more power to them, but when he started yelling—yes, literally yelling, he went on a real bender about it—that dinosaurs were a hoax by the scientific community to discredit Christianity, I was outta there. So I do know a thing or two about sin.] [Yeah, that’s it. That’s how I know about sin, in a purely theoretical, scholarly sense. Wink, wink.]
She: Oh, ya. You’re still married to [insert ex-husband’s name, but most definitely NOT penis, here]. Hahahahahahahah
Me: And I was doing it for pleasure of the flesh, not procreation, since, obviously, that’s not possible. More sinning!
So, not only am I going to hell, if I ever hope to piss without setting all the neighborhood dogs to howling, I have to give up the hobby horse. That twice a year wasn’t much, but it was something to look forward to. On the bright side, I guess I can now call myself a “lapsed” sex-doer.
On second thought, come on, urethra. Go ahead and kill me now.