The Attitude Behind the Piss

I wish someone could tell me what I meant by this: "That's the thing people don't understand. It's not the piss; it's the attitude behind the piss."

I discovered it on my desktop today, saved in a Notepad file. There wasn't anything else--just two carriage returns, then that observation, and two empty lines after. I've got to start including some context with these sorts of things. They sit and sit for months, sometimes, before I get round to reading them again. By that time, it's hopeless. I can't even tell if the sentiment was mine, or someone else's. Was this, perhaps, said to me? Did I fail to understand the attitude behind the piss? Also, piss: urine, or piss: booze? And what attitude could possibly--ah, what does it matter? The moment has passed, I suppose.

In more current news, my favourite pair of trousers broke today. Or, more accurately, they finished breaking. A hole had started to come in the seam along the crotch last year, but I headed it off with a regime of careful leg-crossing and very small steps. Six months ago, the crotch hole was joined by several patches of fraying, most particularly round the cuffs. The seat got all faded and shiny, and then--ah! It's too horrible! The zip, it came loose, and my trousers fell on the floor, and...well, that was the end of them, wasn't it? And my best skirt broke last week, after only five years of wearing, and my grey trousers went in January, which only leaves me with four pairs. Well, five, if you count the green pair, but I've had those since high school. The legs only go to mid-calf. I can't go out in public wearing those.

Oh, and my black shirt, too! I almost forgot about that. It broke last week. It was one of those complex shirts you get, with wee straps criss-crossing everywhere, and metal things holding it together. I was always afraid one of those metal things would come off, and now it has. My red velour shirt's on its way out, too. It's got a plastic zip, and the dryer has been melting it in stages. I'll soon be naked, at this rate.

Oh! Naked! I've got a story about nakedness! I was on the phone with Mother the other night:

"Oh, dear."

"What? What?" Mother sounded worried.

"No, nothing bad. It's just that across the street, there's--"

"There's what?"

"In a window, vacuuming--"

"Who?"

"A naked man! Ouh! He's leaning! He's picking things up off the floor! It's terrible! He's got one leg out behind him...my eyes!"

"Er...."

"Augh! His chest is bouncing! This guy is in terrible shape. I can see absolutely everything. Doesn't he realize people can see? Why doesn't he close the blinds?"

"Ah...."

"I mean, he's--well, you know how it goes when you vacuum. You stretch back and forth, sort of thing, and you're all bending...."

"You know, you don't have to look."

"Oh. Right. Of course. I--ah, I wasn't--I mean, he can't--"

But I had no explanation to offer. An awkward silence ensued, during which I continued staring at the naked man. It was an incredulous sort of staring, though, not the perverted sort. This wasn't the naked guy I usually see from my window, the one using his computer. This was a different naked guy, with an extra-disturbing physique. His flesh was going in all different directions. He'd bend over, and his legs would shudder like blancmange. His back bunched and rippled. Even his arse-cheeks couldn't seem to agree with one another, direction-wise. His belly wobbled and his biceps bulged and flopped. It was fascinating. He wasn't fat, or anything--he just had lots of extra skin, as if he'd got a five-foot skeleton in a six-foot wrapper. I had my spectacles on, so I could see everything perfectly.

"It's the elephant march," I murmured.

"You're not still watching your poor neighbour, are you?" I had forgotten my mother was still on the line.

"No! Of course not!" (I turned red as a beet.) "It's on the telly, the elephant march. You remember, don't you? When I was wee, in ballet class, and we had those hats with the trunks on them?"

"Oh, those hats, shedding sequins everywhere!"

"That's right."

"And the big blue tutus, and the tights."

"Yeah."

"That was terrible."

"I know. And they're doing it in some movie now. Their wardrobe is better, though."

"You doing ballet, indeed!"

The conversation turned to my horrendous lack of grace, and the nudist was forgotten. But I still check for him sometimes, now that I know what apartment he's in. It's not that I want to see him, or anything. I just don't like to be surprised by him. It's better to check for him whenever I'm near the window--when I'm already steeled against the possibility of his presence--than to be caught off-guard.

I ought to have a hairless dog delivered to him by courier.

No, I oughtn't. That's unkind.

(Ha, ha! Hairless dog!)