Now this is an entertaining story. Not because there was anything exceptionally entertaining about you as a person; you were fairly stock-standard as far as blokes go – liked beer, enjoyed football, took great pleasure in wearing oversized singlets where your nipples were exposed, thus essentially defeating the purpose of wearing a singlet in the first place. You know, the usual.
The part that was so entertaining about you, Bed-Wetter, was your complete shamelessness. It was almost like you didn’t possess the ability to feel embarrassment. In a way, I am kind of jealous.
Imagine if I could just run around all day doing stupid things because embarrassment just wasn't in my repertoire of emotions?
Life would be a lot more fun if I could loudly sing along to Kanye West on my morning jog without feeling embarrassed about passers-by looking at me weirdly. Or if I could openly count on my fingers when trying to do mental maths, rather than awkwardly attempting to hide my hands behind back.
Or if I could actually sing the '30-days-has-September' song when working out how many days are in the month, instead of just singing it in my head (don't judge, you know you do it too.)
So you know what Bed-Wetter? There is a chance this may all be coming from a place of pure jealousy. However, that doesn’t change the fact that this story is highly entertaining, so we shall press on.
We meet in a crowded bar one Saturday night, and given the reason you’re there is to celebrate your footy team’s victory that afternoon, you’re a bit intoxicated. So we get chatting, chatting turns to dancing, dancing turns to making out, and making out turns to us getting a taxi back to my place. That really is a beautiful sequence of events, isn’t it? Someone should make a gorgeous flowchart of this romantic journey that regularly occurs in bars and clubs around the world. It would be a work of art.
So B.W., we’re in the taxi and I’ll be straight with you - I’m pretty excited. Because from what I can see with that purposeless singlet you’re wearing, you’ve got a fairly sweet rig. And I’m keen to get all over that. However, as luck would have it, I don’t even get close to getting all over that because as soon as we enter my bedroom, you drunkenly pass out on my bed. Out like a light. There is no bringing you back. Clothes haven’t even been removed, and you are out cold. And snoring like an overweight 80-year old as well, I might add.
Well this is no fun. I’m starting to think God really doesn’t want me to be happy. Every time there is something I want, there is some sort of obstacle to me getting it.
- A side of grilled tomato with my breakfast? Nope, we’ve run out of tomatoes today.
- That pair of black stilettos in the window? Sorry, we’re sold out in your size nationwide, and we’re not getting any more in - ever.
- Boobs bigger than an A-cup? Sorry, not in your DNA, so get used to looking like a little boy and stop pestering me.
So now, in light of you passing out cold in bedroom, I’ve come to the conclusion that God really doesn’t like me very much. I’m thinking it might have something to do with the Cadbury Twirl I stole from Target in Year Six.
Thinking there is no way this could get any more frustrating, I grab my pyjamas and go to bed. However, as my good friend God would have it, there is a way this could get more frustrating. I wake up the next morning to find that I am lying in moist sheets. Rather confused, I roll over and discover that the source of the moisture is your pants.
You have pissed in my bed, B.W. You have pissed in my bed whilst you were sleeping. Naturally, I jump out of bed and away from the pee-soaked sheets, which causes a stir from your fine self and you wake up. So naturally, I alert you to the fact that HEY, YOU HAVE PEED IN MY BED. To which you respond with a very cool, calm, collected - “Oh, no, no I don’t think I have. I probably just spilled some water.”
I beg your pardon? There is no water to be seen in this bedroom. And even if there was, were you guzzling pee-scented h20 in your sleep? And drinking it whilst leaning over your crotch? No, B.W. - there are holes in your story and it is thus not plausible. You peed in my bed.
So after I have lawyered the absolute pants off you, I assume that you will now acknowledge you’ve peed in my bed, and react accordingly. You know, with some remorse perhaps. Or regret, guilt, embarrassment or humiliation. They are just some of a range of emotions for you to choose from. But you choose none of them, B.W. It’s as though you don’t feel that wetting the bed is something to be embarrassed about, or even something to apologise for. Because all you do is look at me blankly. And then - very casually and unperturbedly – shrug, put your shoes on, grab your phone and head out the door.
This makes me very concerned, B.W. Is peeing the bed normal in your house? Did you grow up in a home without toilets? What sort of money are you spending on laundry detergent and sheets if you're taking a pee in your bed instead of the bathroom?
To stop this happening to another poor unsuspecting female in future, I have jotted down a few handy notes for you:
- Don’t pee in someone else’s bed. Try not to pee in your own bed, for that matter.
- If you do happen to pee in someone else’s bed, immediately take the sheets off the bed and put them in the washing machine. Don’t bother ‘offering’ to wash the sheets for them, just do it without question.
- If washing the sheets immediately is not an option (i.e. the person who’s bed you’ve ruined lives in an apartment with no laundry) give them money for the laundromat. Or money for new sheets, if you’re cashed-up.
- When you pee in another person’s bed, an apology generally wouldn’t go astray.
So Bed-Wetter, I hope you take this tips on board moving forward. And sorry this is quite the lengthy letter, I just had a lot to get off my chest. As they say, better out than in, right?