Ok, so I'm reeling from a grisly discovery this morning. I'm making a fried egg for the little guy when i raise the kitchen trash can lid to dispose of the eggshell and i'm bitch-slapped in the face by the smell of jizz. Unmistakable, don't you think? And, keep in mind, with my pregnancy nose, the smell is amplified by a thousand so that it actually resembles the trashcan of an irreputable sperm bank.
The kind of sheer horror that prompts one to stare into the snarled metal of a roadside crash causes my eyes to fall on a perfectly preserved tableau of bachelorhood on display in my kitchen trashcan. An empty beer bottle, a crumpled bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a seemingly non-descript fold of soaked toilet paper. I know immediately this is the calling card of our roommate.
For a moment, I'm paralyzed with disbelief -- mostly because in my effort to squash down the almost-full trashcan, I touched that piece of toilet paper.
With my heart racing I tell Jason our kitchen trash smells of jizz. He looks at me like I'm nuts. I open it for him, HE ACTUALLY PICKS UP THE SUSPECT PIECE OF TOILET PAPER and shakes his head and says with a completely straight face, "I don't smell anything" -- leaving me feeling like I'm going totally nuts. But his next action is telling: He ties of the bag and puts it outside. AH HA!
I say: "Um, you would flush that, right? Barring a childhood raised by wolves, one would never actually put a jizz rag in the kitchen trash -- much less the kitchen trash when you're not living by yourself? I'm crazy, right?"
His response: "Yeah, of course. I don't know anyone who would do such a thing."
My response: Take out the bleach water and spray down the entire trash can and inside the trash can. All the while trying not to puke.
I'm crazy, right?