Happy belated Birthday to Eddie Cahill, who turned thirty-one yesterday. I hope it was full of laughter and love.

Me, I started my day by pooping my pants. It's an aspect of disability that I don't discuss much, not even in my fiction, where I try to be as honest as possible in an effort to explain to the rest of the world what it's like to be me. Sure, Rebecca has had accidents during her rare seizures, but she's never been rolling down the street on a grocery trip and pooped her pants. I doubt she ever will. It's a bit of emotional dishonesty with which I can live, because I don't think even a guy as decent as Flack could be aroused by a woman who occasionally shit her pants, and I want fiction to remain my escape instead of becoming another reminder of how ill-equipped gimp bodies are for love and how unappealing they are to others. God knows I feel as sexy as stale stumpwater, sitting here naked from the waist down and waiting for Roomie to return from the grocery store so I can get into the shower and wash before a urinary tract infection takes root.

Anyway, most of it is cleaned up. I've gotten good at hiding my shame over the years. And I am ashamed. I know I shouldn't be because it wasn't a result of laziness or a deliberate act of malice, know that it was just an ugly vagary of the war between body and will. I am because I also know that most thirty-one-year-olds don't shit their pants without the Mephistophelean aid of Jose Cuervo and his equally potent brethren. I'm stone cold sober and old enough to know better, and I'm still marinating in my own filth. To say I'm discouraged and depressed would be a gross understatement.

Roomie has at last returned to rescue me, and as soon as he gets back from the complex laundromat, I'm going to scour myself clean. The shame, I suspect, will linger a while.

And because I don't want this to be the first entry in The Poop Diaries, I'd like to note that I enjoyed last night's episode of Supernatural. The war between good and evil has been wonderful thusfar, but I've been hankering for a good, old-fashioned bogey of the week. Granted, the bogey turned out to be the tragic result of incestuous rape and prolonged isolation from the outside world, but it was nice to see the boys back in their element. There were some minor flaws in the story's logic--the feral siblings' ability to write, for instance--but for the most part, it was delightfully creepy, a fusion of The Ring and the inbred monstrosities of Wrong Turn.

Dear Dean,

You were in Hell. You were being relentlessly and ruthlessly tortured for thirty years without respite for no other reason than you sold your soul to save Sam. Given those circumstances, you're entitled to be angry and more than a little crazy. I don't know any souls who wouldn't break under those conditions, and the fact that you resisted for thirty years is a testament to your decency. I wouldn't have.

What's more, scientific studies and experiments have established that humans are predisposed to enjoy power over others, and to abuse it, especially when it is encouraged by those in authority. We are also petty, vengeful creatures, and it surprises me not a whit that you relished the opportunity to inflict pain rather than endure it. You've been enduring unjustly inflicted pain for as long as you can remember, living and dead. It's natural that you should view your role as tormentor as a cosmic evening of the scales.

What I'm saying is, stop beating yourself up. You're pretty when you angst, but there's no need to take on additional sins. Let your self-loathing go before it kills you again.

La Guera

And was it me, or did the music in the final scene belong in a Spanish telenovela on Univision? I fully expected Dean to rip open his shirt, bare his manly chest, and declare that he was going to commit seppuku with his Swiss army knife to atone for his evil deeds, dun dun DUN.

A-
.

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