In my world, life is like a toilet paper roll — you either handle your shit like a baller or you wipe like a bitch.
I am old, and my life is riddled with friendships I shouldn’t have spent two seconds trying to cultivate let alone years. Snap judgements are a thing I need now like oxygen. But the vast majority of judging is basic and unreliable, and also takes too much time.
I don’t want to nibble on people like they are a box of indiscernible chocolates filled with nuts or some kind of Robitussin goo slowly savored on a park bench until I’m in too deep and left gagging.
Nope, I need a sign — a trigger warning if you will — that let’s me know if the people I meet are worth knowing.
Have you ever noticed that anyone who buys two-ply toilet paper — your Charmin, Quilted Northern, Angel Softs of the world — is a total nightmare?
I mean real scum of the earth: gaslighters, ghosters, Pepsi-drinkers, swipe-lefters, the Trumps. They cannot, for whatever reason, live on the edge like the rest of us budget conscious folks by wondering: is today the day I accidentally finger my asshole and then carpe diem that T-P and go for it.
Unless you buy two-ply. You’re the exception. There’s always one.
I want to know folks who appreciate the art of wrapping thin toilet paper into a mitten and going to town on their tampon tunnels.
I want to know people who wipe through burrito-induced redhole and come out of the bathroom like a goddamn soldier instead of sashaying into the living room because their balloon knot was graced by the preciousness of cashmere two-ply.
I love people who can handle a pain in the ass instead of being one.
I want to know the kind of toilet paper purchasers who buy in bulk waiting for just the right night to send their Saturday morning-mowing neighbor a crystal clear message that their sleep is not to be messed with — and they’ve got enough off-brand rolls to level the damn block if he even dares start that fucking thing before 2 PM.
Two-ply buyers are the kind of people who insist on backing into a parking spot like the only thing I have to do is wait for them to learn how to drive.
They run marathons on the weekends posting pictures of themselves at the finish line while the rest of us are like, yes, Netflix, I am still watching.
They gave birth to you. (OK that’s only me. My mother is a two-plier and I’m savage AF.)
Your Charmin lovers show up to the abortion clinic with fetal dismemberment posters like that’s apparently a thing that exists and your Scott wipers show up like:
You’re Quilted Northerns of the world are like oooh, let me turn up this Taylor Swift. And the off-brand wipers are all: I like that old Kanye.
The Angel Softs of the world say shit like, “it’s wine o’clock.”
What I’m saying is the next time you’re invited somewhere with someone you don’t want to know, head to their bathroom. Look at their toilet paper purchase. What are they packing? Reach out and grab it. And then judge them accordingly. Because if they believe angels are a thing who need to clean their brown holes you’re fighting a losing high maintenance battle. Just wipe and dash, get the hell out of there.