Sometimes I wonder if I'm trying to tell myself something since, just before embarking on my grand trip to Montrose, I stopped in a woman's bathroom to have a poop. And this is the second time in the last few years I've gone into a woman's bathroom to have a poop.
The public bathroom had no door, just a bifurcational ingress for either gender (pretty sexist when you think about it), and I rushed in through what seemed like a virile masculine entrance and through the empty bathroom to the largest stall reserved for the handicapped. That's right: I was a criminal twice over and it felt delicious. As I sat on the toilet contemplating my ineluctable swell of rectal joy, I heard a feminine voice by the sink. Hmm, I thought. That sounds like a female of the womanly kind. She must be with her child to help li'l Scooter or li'l Skippy do his li'l business. I continued to sit and stew, experiencing some sphincter shyness as I heard more and more female voices. Fuck, I thought. Can it really be that I've run into a woman's bathroom yet again?? Fastening up my misgendery horror, I cannily waited by the stall door for the voices to subside. I feared what would happen if I was spotted coming out of my stall. A shriek? A call to Homeland Security? A lip-licking request for my digits...??
At last I got free without charges being filed, and on the way, as I swiftly nonchalantly rushed out, I nearly collided with a dude coming out from the correct bathroom. He gave me a puzzled look. And I returned the look: hey, buddy, it's the 21st century, GET USED TO IT.
After my pansexual contretemps, I drove to Montrose. Once there, I was greeted by a brass band and my good friend Emma with her new bookstore in all its glory!
"Get yer Infinite Jest here, people! Get 'em while they're thick!"
As a bookstore warming gift, I bestowed upon Emma some paint, on a canvas. She set it in a place sure to scare away the shoplifters--so now she doesn't need to show up at all. The store just runs itself!
"This better not do that Dorian Gray thing."
Since there wasn't a ladies restroom for me to make sad, we went to the mineral pools in Ouray and I swam a few laps in the pool. But it seemed rather pointless since there weren't any girls watching me get out of the water in slow motion as water undulated off my chassis covered in soft erotic hair and then shake my golden locks in slow motion as my muscles rippled, in slow motion. Damn I turn myself on.
Then, in an effort to avoid the seventh game of the World Series, we decided to learn about apples.
"Shh, if we walk a little faster we can lose him...!"
I found this picture in my phone. I'm not sure why I took it, but doesn't it make you want to feel an ineluctable swell of rectal joy? DOESN'T IT
"Is the It clown hiding behind that post?"
On my way back to Denver, I ran into a traffic jam outside of Fairplay where the speeds topped out at 25 angstroms an hour. It seemed everyone wanted to look at Autumn Foley Edge--a very popular stripper in these here parts, or so is my understanding. This photo illustrates how people gape with their gills after the sustenance of beauty.
"Where did the fishie go?"
In the end, it was good to get country sunshine and country air, for some reason. But I'm glad to be back in my monk's cell illuminating this blog with my rhino stylus. Also, to get nicely high.
Thanks, Emma!
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