And then someone slid a note under the door.
And I just stared at it, because seriously . . . what the fuck? It was so baffling that I couldn’t even get scared. I tried to slide my foot over to reach the note (which was a small, white slip of paper), but I couldn’t reach it, so I just yelled weakly, “Hello? Did . . . did you just pass me a note?” but no one answered, and then I started to get freaked out, and I silently thanked God that I’d thought to bring the phone into the bathroom just in case I needed to call to report the laxative overdose. I picked up the phone to call the police, but then I considered how it would sound when I told them that I was calling from inside my bathroom, where I’d OD’ed on laxatives, and that a possible rapist was quietly passing me notes under the bathroom door. And then I thought that it would be really weird if the note said something like “Do you like me? Circle yes or no,” and I probably would have laughed if it weren’t for the laxative/rapist combo bearing down on me. Then another note came slowly peeking out from under the door, and I realized it wasn’t a note at all. It was actually the wrapper from a Band-Aid, and that’s when I realized I was probably dealing with a psychopath, because why would anyone pass me a Band-Aid wrapper unless they were completely insane?
So I yelled, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE! AND I HAVE DIARRHEA! From . . . AIDS!” because I thought that would discourage a rapist. I wasn’t really sure whether AIDS caused diarrhea, but I figured it probably did. And then it got really quiet, and suddenly the Band-Aid wrapper was violently pulled back out from under the door and I was all, “What the hell?” Then it shot back into the bathroom again, but this time I could see that it was being pushed under the door by a fucking cat paw, and that’s when I realized the cat had knocked over my purse and was just shoving receipts and assorted purse flotsam under the door. Then I murdered my cat, but only in my mind.
It occurred to me that I should write all this down, but I didn’t have anything to write on, except for the paper the cat had pushed under the door, and so I yelled, “Posey, push the paper farther!” but he didn’t, because he’s an asshole. And also he’s a cat, so he doesn’t speak English. So instead I wrote this on toilet paper with lipstick (but just the key words, and not this whole thing, because that would be ridiculous). Then I said a little prayer thanking God for saving me from getting assaulted, and also for not making me have to explain to the ambulance drivers that I’d accidentally mistaken my cat for a rapist after purposely overdosing on laxatives in order to make my antidepressants work better. Mainly because that’s the kind of story that gets told over and over again to the new ambulance-crew recruits. But then I remembered that girl from high school who had to have the poop bubble removed, so maybe in comparison my story wasn’t really so weird after all.
Except when Victor came home I told him about it (because how could you not share that story?), and he got all testy about the laxatives and implied that I “couldn’t be trusted in the house unsupervised,” and I’m all, “Glass half full, asshole. I didn’t get raped, right?” and he shouted, “You were never in danger of getting raped,” but I think he just said that to hurt my feelings, and so I retorted, “Oh, I am ALWAYS in danger of being raped, thankyouverymuch,” and he was all, “I’m not questioning your rapability. I’M JUST SAYING I CAN’T GO AWAY FOR TWO DAYS WITHOUT YOU OD’ING ON LAXATIVES.” And that’s when I made a mental note that from now on I would never tell him about OD’ing on anything. And also that I should probably make friends with ambulance drivers, because I bet they have some kick-ass stories.
An Open Letter to My Husband, Who Is Asleep in the Next Room
Hi.