Sunday, March 12, 2017

March 12, 2017

Dear Diary,

What a miserable Sunday.  I generally don't care for Sundays, because that's Bessie's day off and my entire schedule goes straight to hell.  Ever since he closed the Foundation, Bill's been cutting back on expenses.  He's too cheap to spend on anything other than other than "necessities," and says we all have to make sacrifices.  He says he's cut back on his weekly cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon but I know for a fact he still pays for a PornHub Pro subscription, because I see it on the American Express bill.  He charges it off as an "office expense."

When we first started giving Bessie Sundays off, it wasn't a problem, because she got us a little Filipino man who smiled all the time and laughed at everything I said.  I don't think he understood English too well, because whenever I asked for a glass of water he'd bring me a bowl of rice, smile, bow, and then leave the room to watch some Japanese game show on his iPad.  He had some Filipino name, but we just called him Joey because it was easier to pronounce.

I'm not sure I should admit this, diary, but another thing that makes Sundays so "challenging" is that those are my enema days.  Dr. Morell says that until I've fully adjusted to the opioids, we need to keep the tubes flushed, and these days, they sure aren't flushing themselves.  For the past few months, Joey used to trot into my room, flip me on my tummy and yell, "Tube time, Misses! Tube time!"

Joey really tried to make the the entire experience fun, but even the almost-most-powerful-woman-in-the-world can feel pretty compromised with her pants down and a little Filipino man swathing on a heavy layer of KY jelly all over her netherparts.  You do get used to it after a while, but those first few times can be a little jarring, which Joey tried to accommodate by wearing an engineer's hat and yelling, "Here comes da choo choo!  Here comes the choo choo!"  Then he'd slide in the tube, squeeze the bag and I'd spend the next hour and a half flexing my sphincter and holding back more water than Hoover Dam.

For a little guy from half way around the world, I have to say Joey really knew his way around a tube.  Most of the time, I didn't even need the extra Valium.  Of course, as soon as the Foundation closed, Joey was the first to go, leaving me with nobody for my Sunday "procedure" other than Bill, who has no technique whatsoever.  Whereas Joey was kind and gentle, Bill just stomps into the room, yanks down my drawers and mutters, "Let's get this over with."  Then he pumps me a few minutes, leaves the room and makes me clean up everything myself.

Reminds me of when we were dating.  Ah, good times.


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