The Friend

I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Futuro Urinal. She lives in my backpack most of the time. I met her one day while indulging one of my peculiar pastimes— perusing the adaptive equipment shelves at my nearby Crip supplies joint. She was lovely. If only you could see her, you'd have no trouble understanding why I was so taken with her.

She was sitting alone, as if someone before me had realized her special qualities and determined she deserved a pedestal. There she was in all her aquamarine splendor. My comprehension of Ode On A Grecian Urn was immediate. I've always longed for the exotic, having never traveled farther than the state line, so I took a chance: I took her home.

Relationships being what they are, it was not exactly smooth sailing from the start. Neither of us came with a manual. We had what good ole Tennessee referred to as a "little period of adjustment". I admit it—I made all the changes. (Isn't that so often the case when your need is the greater?) She stayed her cool blue self while I was forced to make revisions in my style. For her to be there for me, she demanded that I lose the jeans, T-shirts, and adidas and wear only skirts and dresses sans panties. Now, for some this latter requirement might come as a welcome relief, but it almost caused me to abandon the relationship. Having been raised a good Catholic girl, I wasn't so sure a pantiless life would get me to heaven. But earthly need willed out, and I soon decided eternal damnation was probably not to high a price to pay for the pleasure of my dear female Urinal's company. It was a struggle, but we learned to fit together.

Perhaps it would be going too far to call what Urinal and I have together love, but my life is certainly richer from her presence in it. She is always with me when I want her to be, always there for me when I need her, and for all our togetherness, offers only independence and freedom. Love? I guess not. But it's certainly safe to say we're friends.