A Toilet Tale Of True Love: My Life In Shambles

It was early January in Nova Scotia and, as usual, it was freaking cold. I was living in a tiny bachelor apartment that I had just moved into after my three and a half year relationship ended. I was tired of sleeping in my sister's bed crying, afraid to be alone while she patiently talked me through it.

I had just woken up for the third day in a row to an old Big Mac box which, though it would have been easier to get rid of, reminded me of a prolonged one-night-stand that I just couldn't let walk out the door. 24-hour Macdonald's have always reminded me of hookers. I walk by them in the daytime and think, "Oh gross. You make me sick! You're what's wrong with the world!" But at 3:00 a.m., when I've been drinking, they're just one swipe of my credit card away from giving me a really guilty morning.

This morning was no different as I looked out my big beautiful curtainless window that spanned the entirety of my room, my recent life in shambles on display for everyone to see. As I peeled the one thin sheet off my frozen body I repeated the same phrase I had been saying for eight days now: "Alright. I have to buy a duvet today." I stood up and sat down (there is no walking involved between my two sole pieces of furniture). My small leather ottoman is plunked right in front of a 1989 Hitachi TV, which was still playing Season six of Sex in the City from the night before. The scene was Carrie, the female lead, about to choose between the popular Mr. Big and the somewhat chilly Russian architect. Right before she decided her fate, my $50-DVD player crashed and burned.