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If I were my butt, I would go on strike. The working conditions are definitely not up to safety standards.

This morning was one of those mornings where I simply couldn’t get my shit together. I spilled soymilk all over the breakfast nook floor, dropped my hairbrush in the toilet, and then, nearly forgot my veggies for the office party. Due to my protracted bungling, I left the house late, and didn’t think to take a second change of clothes along with me to work, I had to ride my 50-ish blocks in the pouring rain, so here I sit, in the office, marinating in rainwater and road-grit. Since I was here in the office a good hour before everyone else, I spent the first half-hour sitting with a stack of paper towels on my chair, with a good deal of toilet paper shoved into my underpants, to soak up some rainwater and provide a buffer-zone between the cold, cruel pants and my bum and girly bits. However, as the hours of office occupation drew nearer, I deemed it unadvisable to be gallivanting around with a puffed-up backside, so the ladies’ toilets’ wastepaper bin now sports a large wad of TP with a butt-shaped divot in the centre.

And I am still gritty, damp, and grumpy. I am pretty certain my ass hates me.

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