It all falls

It is easier to admit that I know nothing than to defend that I know everything.
Living stuck in tar, in need of a rubdown.
The tap flows, the nights go by.
Time passes and life expires.
Every day I curl up and go to sleep.
People mesh and then retire.
Bodies decay with cracks and holes.
Sags and tears,
rips and mold.
Excel the process, day by day.
Get cancer,
have a seizure.
This is drama.
A coronary creeps up behind you and takes away your breath
You grab your chest and collapse.
A jolt of electricity revitalizes you.
You're welcomed back with flowers and candy.
You just weren't ready, were you?
And life as a lamb in the flock continues.

Poop humor has no expiration

We're expected to mature on a schedule.
There are many phases in our lives, adolescence being one of them, (obviously) and you enter each phase, stay a while, then progress, leaving the characteristics of the phase behind. But what happens when you're stuck? I mean, not completely stuck, but you carry a characteristic into each subsequent phase and you just can't rid yourself of the pesky burden of the church giggles when you have a silent fart in an inappropriate situation and it stinks to high heavens. You know other people smell it, but they left their poop baggage back on the adolescent train. And are passing a little judgment as you begin to choke on your everlasting chuckles.
I cherish my inner child. It's my guiding light. But this maturation process seems to be more difficult for me than the average 20-year-old. I think "outer child" is way more appropriate when labeling my personality domain.
And sometimes, I just do stuff that is so stupid. I can't phrase it any other way.
Today I had a scrub top on at work that had strings in the back to tie and show off my curves when covered in dog hair and dander (sexy). The top is a little big anyway, but the strings are like XL. They were hanging past my rear, which was unbeknown to me, even though the office cats were swatting at them all morning. This should have been a clue to readjust to avoid a wardrobe malfunction.
Anyway, I didn't readjust. I'm not good at picking up on things that most people naturally do unconsciously. Oblivious, you might say.
So, I go for my post-Fiber-One-bar-doodoo in the client bathroom. It's a morning ritual. Quite tranquil and gives me a little break during the rush. The client bathroom and I have a thing.
I do my biznass while staring at the creepy picture of a lion that's always there to join me. I go back to my desk and my scrub pants are wet in the back. Strange. I'm 20-years-old and an expert wiper. (front to back). What could this be, I wonder. Then I reach up a little and realize that the strings are soaked in my poop water! I pooped my own shirt at my big girl job! Humiliating.
It didn't go unnoticed by my co-workers as I was hoping.
So I had to tell. I had to go to the equivilant of the lost-and-found in the nurse's office in elementary school and wear the ugly-ass clothes that no one wants.
For the rest of the day, I sported a dark green jingle-bell scrub top with the Sexy Green and punk-ass Red M&M. In the middle of May.
The soiled scrub top sat in a ball by the filing cabinet. The office cats swatting at the strings off-and-on until close.
Live and learn.