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I Hate Trouble
Wednesday, 2005 July 27 - 12:51 am
What? It wasn't me. I didn't do anything wrong.

All my life, I've hated getting in trouble.

My earliest memory of getting in trouble is when I was about five years old. I was hanging around with a neighborhood kid, Eric Lindquist, and he convinced me that we should go to the neighborhood convenience store and take some gum. So, we grabbed some gum and ran out of the store. About half an hour later, a lady came to my house and told my parents she saw me. My parents adamantly defended my innocence; I claimed that I had found some money to buy the gum, and Dad insisted that I was telling the truth. I lied to defend myself... and even at the tender age of five, I knew I was being bad.

In all the years that followed, there were many other incidents of getting into trouble. I tried to sneak off our [closed] high-school campus for lunch, and got stopped by a police officer. I smooshed a raw egg on a guy's head on the second-to-last day of high school, and got caught by my physics teacher. I got SEVERAL speeding tickets. When I posted an article on Usenet telling everyone to send email to a spammer who was pissing me off, I got a certified letter informing me that I was violating my ISP's policy.

Every time I get in any kind of trouble, it just eats me up inside. I get filled with anxiety, and I'm not sure why. It's not as if anything really bad is going to happen to me. I'm not going to get spanked, and even if I were, I'm not sure it would be all that terrible.

Today, at work, we all received an email telling us that we were NOT to use the restrooms on the fifth floor of our building. The fifth floor is currently vacant, but apparently, they still don't want anyone pooping up there. Even though the email wasn't aimed at me in particular, and even though I know other people use that restroom, I felt my stomach get tied up in knots, because it felt like the email was written directly to me. After all, I had come to think of the fifth floor as my personal fortress of solitude.

My first reaction was shame. My second reaction was anger. What the hell difference does it make if I poop on the sparkling-clean-and-empty fifth-floor restroom instead of the always-dirty-and-run-down third floor restroom? Who has enough spare time that they can monitor this sort of thing, anyway? What do they think they're gonna do to me if they catch me?

The email said that security guards would be contacted. I'm somewhat tempted to test that theory. But you know what would be more satisfying? If I got written permission from the lessees of the fifth floor, giving me permission to poop there. Then, when I get apprehended by the security guards, I could whip out my written contract and say, "SEE, I'M ALLOWED TO DROP BOMBS HERE. HA HA HA. TAKE A DEEP BREATH, SUCKERS."

That would be sweet.
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Posted by Ken in: life

Comments

Comment #1 from Crouching Hamster (Guest)
2005 Jul 28 - 1:48 am : #
Oh man. I have the same anxiety. All the time. But I was raised Catholic. What's your excuse?
Comment #2 from Nicholas (Guest)
2005 Jul 29 - 8:26 am : #
You sound like a trouble maker to me. The Man must have you on His permanent record. You don't want to be on record as a trouble maker.

Maybe they will put motion sensors in the stalls to alert them. Or maybe just odor detectors.

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