I wake up, first of all.  That's the most important thing, isn't it?  The waking up, I mean.  If you don't wake up sometime, you've basically eliminated any chance of getting anything done, and if you don't get anything done, then there's really no point for you being here, now is there?

But, anyway, yes.  I woke up, and Tim Roth was staring down at me.  Don't be alarmed, it wasn't really British actor Tim Roth.  He's printed on this Reservoir Dogs poster I've got in my room.  It hangs right next to my bed, and if I sleep on my back, the odds are pretty good that I'll wake up looking at Tim Roth.  And vice versa, of course.

His eyes never move.  They just seem to hold their place, staring at me.  Of course, he's merely a printed image, so this is forgivable, I suppose.

I liked Reservoir Dogs.  Who cares if Tarantino ripped off City on Fire?  Not me.  To paraphrase Swingers, "everyone rips off everyone."  Including you.

Roth's eyes are nice.  I think if I had to choose a set of eyes to rip off another person and put onto my own face, Roth's would be it.  They're deep, undoubtedly British eyes, and I like them.  A lot.

Rolling out of the bed, I realize that maybe today would be even better than yesterday.  Yesterday, in and of itself, was pretty damn good in its own right.  You see, yesterday was the day that I discovered my dog was urinating on my bathroom towels.  It was creepy at first, let me tell you.  But, now, looking back, I think I took a lot out of the experience.  If there was ever a day when my life seemed like a sitcom, it was yesterday.  I mean, I got a really good lesson out of my dog pissing on towels.  It was weird, to say the least, but in retrospect, I guess there are worse things that could have happened to put my own free will into perspective.

I always hate when people say things like "Well, my car broke down, but I guess I learned a lesson from it: never use gas from Sheetz!"  Or, like, "Well, I stayed up till three in the morning and still didn't get the paper done; I'll likely fail the course.  But, I guess I learned that procrastination is an act worthy of eternal damnation!  Amen!"  I tend to dislike people who can take any situation and say that they learned an important life lesson from it.  I tend to dislike people who are more optimistic than I am, who can find the good in everything.

I never meant to turn into one of those people.  But, yesterday, it just sorta...happened.  Things were going nicely enough leading into that.  I'd eaten a bowl of Frosted Flakes.  It was a Saturday, and I wasn't scheduled to work.  I had the entire afternoon laid out in front of me, and The Girl Of My Dreams had asked if I was busy this weekend.  We'd made vague plans to get together sometime during the course of our three day break.  I was feeling like a pimp, to tell you the truth.  TGOMD was short, like me, had blonde hair which clashed ever so nicely with my brown hair, and had this aura about her, this incredible field of magic that constantly surrounded her.  I couldn't stop thinking about her, and what she said in study hall yesterday:  "Gimme a call sometime tomorrow."

So, yeah.  Frosted Flakes, an invitation from The Girl Of My Dreams to hang out, and a day off from working at the oppressive multinational corporation that employs me.  I smiled, and stretched out at the breakfast table.  However, upon the raising of my arms above my head, I realized that I'd yet to shower.  The Girl had given me no time limit on her offer, so despite the late hour of one in the afternoon, I decided to go upstairs to the shower.
My brother keeps this really tiny CD player in the bathroom, and I pop a Stooges disc into the stereo.  Get the water warmed up.  Pee.  Fire up the ol' electric razor and cut away some of the day's stubble.  Wash my face, don't bother with after shave.  By now, the water is steaming hot; despite the mid-May heat, I still take my showers scalding.  Step inside, walk this way.  Lather.  Rinse and repeat.  Soap.  All the trappings of an excellent shower.  I'm singing along to "Gimme Danger," there are friggin' birds chirping outside, for chrissake.  It's a wonderful day.

And that's when I hear the door creak open.  I cock my head to the side, not sure who was coming into the bathroom.  I usually locked the door, but this time was different.

"Hello?" I ask, shampoo stinging my eyes.

No answer.

"Anyone there?"

Nothing.  I shrug and wash the shampoo out of my hair.  Couple of minutes and gallons of wasted water later, I'm out of the shower, my body drip drip dripping down onto the tiled floor.  My eyes are closed as water rolls down the side of my hair, caught up in the tangle of brown hair which covers my head and neck area.  I grab blindly for a towel, and then feel, to my surprise, that the towel is already slightly damp.

"Well, that's curious," I mutter, moving a hand to my eyes and wiping away the dripping water.  Before me, the forest green towel in my hand is soaking wet.  I widen my eyes, and mutter, "I swear that towel was dry when I got in here..."

It's then that I feel a slight breeze.

The door is hanging open.

"I closed that door," I say, feeling the slightest tinge of fear tugging at my heart.  The onset of actual emotion, as opposed to my usual practiced indifference excites me.  So what if it was fear?  I was feeling something, and that's what counted.

I move my eyes from the open door back to the towel.  It's wet, seemingly saturated.  I slowly reach out and touch the towel again.  Pulling it from the towel rack, I press it against my face and am immediately hit with the pungent aroma of urine.

Saying, "Ugh," dropping the towel.

Saying, "Yeach," gagging into the toilet.

Retching up nothing, I gasp for breath.  The scent is still on my hands, and I take a step back in the small bathroom to the sink.  Washing my hands, I stare at my own sweating forehead in the mirror.  There is just the tiniest patch of steam on the mirror.  How had it gotten so hot in here?  I needed air.

I stumble out the door, and take a few steps down the hall to my parents' bedroom.  Pushing open the door, I make a mad dash for their balcony.  Throwing open the door, my eyes are burnt by the sun beaming down.  The balcony, though, provides a much needed breath of fresh air, and I suck in mouthfuls.

And that's when I hear the distinct sound of someone pissing.

It was coming from my parents' bathroom.  I'd found the culprit!  This had to be him.  I burst through the door, determined to find out just who had urinated on my towel!  The bathroom door is only slightly open, and through the ajar portion I cannot make out who is in there.  So, pushing on, I shove the door open with both arms, and yell "Aha!"

Seated atop my parents' toilet is my Boston Terrier, Ford Prefect!

"Ford!" I shout, "What on earth are you doing!?"

My dog had never spoken before, so imagine my surprise when he turned his head to the side and said, "Why, I'm relieving myself, of course."

I sort of widened my eyes.  My dog chuckled.

"You're surprised, I take it.  Oh, no worries," he said, "old chum!  Things are going quite nicely here!"

With that, he stood up on the toilet seat, turned around, and flushed.

I gasp.

"Haha."

When I can find my voice again, I manage to say, "Uhm."

Ford hopped off the toilet and trotted, on four legs, across the bathroom floor.  I follow, pointing at him.

"You...you're not supposed to be able to do that, are you?"

Ford grinned smugly, his crooked Boston Terrier teeth sticking out.  "Oh, you," he said, taking the steps two at a time.

"But, listen here.  Why did you urinate on my towels?  Furthermore, why you are talking and sitting-"

My dog cut me off abruptly, swinging his stub of a tail around at me.  "Look here, buddy, don't try to put all the blame on me, all right?  That's the problem with you people, as far as I can tell; you're much too eager to pass the buck, lay the blame on someone else.  It was you who left the door unlocked, it was you who left the towel out, if was you who set up the situation.  Deep down, you'd always hoped I would piss on them."

"Oh, come now, that's rid-"

"Can you recall a single time you'd ever locked the door to the bathroom?" asked Ford, stepping up to his food bowl.

My mind scanned.  "Oh my god," I mutter.  "I...I can't!"

Ford nodded slowly, munching on gravy train.

"You left that door unlocked each and every single day, and you knew I'd go in there sooner or later.  One of these days, you figured, the temptation would get to me, and I'd have to piss on the towels.  Am I right?"

I can't say anything.

"Am I right?"  Slurping up water.

My sweet christ, he was!

I can only nod feebly.

"Yeah," says my dog.  "I thought as much."

With that, he pulls an about face, and then lays down in his doggy bed.

Now, looking out the window at this wonderful Sunday morning, I feel a sense of upcoming revelation, as if there's something great coming up just around the bend.  It'd be easier to lie to myself, wouldn't it?  To convince myself that I didn't put the towels there, easily within the reach and aim of my dog's urine.  It'd be much easier to pretend my dog doesn't talk to me and reveal universal matters to me, like free will.

But, you know what?  He does.