Downey's "Classics" Presents: I Really Need To Talk About This

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a Facebook note from a few years ago that accomplished exactly what it needed to. Forgive the formatting--it was necessary for the big joke. Enjoy.

"I Really Need To Talk About This"
by John Downey

There's a reason why I don't talk about my personal life on Facebook all that often, and that's because I'm not sure how to interpret the events of my own life. My family has a history of not seeing things as they should, and with my Asperger's further complicating the way I see the world, I feel as though discussing my private life in such a public setting (hey, if cops can use Facebook to catch underage drinkers, then it's public) would only make things worse. If I talk about good things, then I end up jinxing them. If I talk about bad things, well, just reread that long "fuck you" note I made about a year ago. (I don't regret feeling angry, but I do regret taking that issue public.) To read my notes, you would never know that I dated two girls within the past 14 months (at separate times, of course), or that I have 3 nieces that I haven't seen in years. Unlike certain people (I'm not referring to any of my Facebook friends), I know that talking about my entire life on Facebook brings more problems than solutions.
That said, I feel the need to talk about this issue in a very public setting. It's been a constant problem of mine for a while that recently manifested itself in a very disheartening, and somewhat humiliating, matter. Talking about it with my friends got me lots of responses, all of them being "do your best to put it out of your mind". I was told the problem was going to be better in the morning. It wasn't. This has been weighing on me for a while, and I feel as though I will die if I don't get this off of my chest. I don't care how many friends I lose because of this, even though I'm pretty sure some of them will never talk to me again because of what I'm going to talk about. I am, obviously, referring to the shit that Max took a couple of weeks ago.
Folks, the toilet that 4 of the 6 men in my townhouse use on a regular basis has been through a lot. Not long ago, in one phantom s(h)itting, it housed an exhibition of scat that eclipsed my most glorious constellation funk several times over. On another occasion, it somehow found itself carrying only 2 teaspoons of water to catch our waste. On yet another occasion, Karl read a newspaper while sitting on it. That doesn't sound bad to me either, but Ron and Max acted as though this was the same as seeing Rosanne naked, and seeing as how they have a better sense of normal than I do, I'm willing to take their word on this one.
The shit that Max took a couple of weeks ago (which shall forever be known as "IT") left one of the most disgusting smells I have ever smelt. I would like to jokingly say that my eyes were burning because of IT, but in all honesty, my eyes became physically irritated by the stench. Despite being flushed away almost immediately, the stench managed to make its way from the bowels of the downstairs area into the moonlit kitchen/living room, killing any insects in its wake. If we had lit a match in the 6 hours after IT was born, I am convinced that there would be a gigantic crater in the ground where the Berkshires used to be. (Whether that would be considered a tragedy or a favor to the world, I will leave to personal interpretation.)
Max, you owe me. To make things better, you must allow me to take a shit in your bed. If you don't let me do that, we can't be friends. Actually, I'm just kidding; I could never stay angry at that cutely chiseled face of yours, especially with his new haircut that would really want me to pinch his cheeks if I were gay. Wait, no, fuck that, man; you made the shitdemon from "Dogma" rape the innocence of your roommates, and that requires restitution. Well, that would require restitution if your computer was less awesome than it is. A computer that you used to show us penis mutilation.
...
WAUGH!
Now I know how it feels to be raped by God. On the one hand, my ass hurts; on the other hand, God chose ME, of all the 10 million people in the world, to rape, so I should feel lucky. Sort of.
Okay, Max, here's the deal: there are 80 or so townhouses on campus, including one right above ours. Next time you have to take a shit like that, do it in one of THOSE townhouses, not ours.
Please?