My Own Piss™. Have I considered what this actually means? I will only be consuming cayenne pepper lemonade for ten days.
The whole world seems to smell of hot dogs, but I am optimistic.
I haven’t started the full cleanse yet because I’m supposed to “ease” into drinking My Own Piss™, like walking down the steps of a too cold pool at a birthday party where you don’t know anyone and everyone is already in the pool, having leapt into the pool like carefree little sprites, and there you are at the shallow end, ducking to avoid a volleyball, hoping no one will notice you and that everyone will notice you and that you will be accepted or at least not made fun of.
“I’m just gonna ease in,” you say aloud to no one, your teeth chattering, your mal-formed nipples making themselves known.
I am pausing writing here to drink three lukewarm cups of water. I open my throat to them.
So here I am, standing in the pool, hugging my own damp form, when suddenly a need arises, a need so great that it must be filled in the precise moment it has risen. I have two choices:
1: I leap out of the pool and run to a bathroom of which the location and vacancy is completely unknown. The harried thought occurs to me that perhaps there is no bathroom, it could happen, and what if it did? Where would you relieve myself? I would never. I would wander through the house, past the birthday cake and mothers, then down the street and out into the universe, living with this great need to pee burning in me for the rest of my life, like blindness or unrequited love. This is how I have been filling my days, essentially. Many lethal combinations: movement and ignorance, recklessness and desire.
2: I pee in the pool. Instead of running to the great unknown with a fire inside, I could stand, let it go, and face some consequences.
Once, I actually did pee myself. It was in New York City, when the Q train was stalled over the Hudson River. I had drank my sixth beer just twenty minutes before. I had no choice in the matter; my body made a decision, and the next thing I knew, there was a warm puddle at my feet, the same fermented yellow as the subway car floor. I was so humiliated that I had to leave myself. I remember pretending that I was both members of a teen goth couple across the aisle. Their lithe, pierced bodies were so indifferent, so accepting of the void, almost to the point where they seemed in control of it. The girl was whispering into her boyfriend’s neck, her black lips brushing his cheek. She was wearing a Marilyn Manson shirt. When I returned to my own body, the train had reached the other side of the river. I threw away my acrid tights in a trash can and walked down Atlantic Avenue for four miles, bare-legged and damp-skinned. I don’t why I didn’t just get back on the train. I had never been so happy to be home.
I feel ready to release. I feel ready to drink My Own Piss™. It seemed like just three nights ago I ate two supreme chalupas and a hard shell beef taco from from Taco Bell, and afterwards kicked my remaining Baja Blast into a liquor store parking lot. I’m sorry for that. I will pay for that, and after I pay, I will be pure. That was three nights ago, this is now.
Starting tomorrow, pee in suburban pool water for the next ten days. Right now, bananas and soy milk blended to taste like the sloppy, sweet bottom of swamp.
All this liquid, all this water.
I am standing here, the warmth growing all around me. If anyone notices, I might run to the unknown anyway, the fire still there. I will be all right either way; the world smells like hot dogs, and I am satisfied by small pleasures.
This could change. I am optimistic.
Front page image by Justin De La Ornellas.