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“What a beautiful morning!” I think to myself while eating a breakfast in the living room. I am humming in a gleeful tune and looking at the outside in a strange euphoric mood with no reason.  Birds are chirping joyfully and flying around the cloudless sky cheerfully. The deep yellow rays of the morning sunlight is streaming through the window, and I am covering my face with my left hand, for it is simply too bright. I understand everything instantly. This is God’s way to say, “Good morning, Shogo.” I am so moved by the unexpected touch of welcoming me to the brand new day. I surreptitiously whisper, “Good morning, Lord Almighty,” with joyful tears on my eyes. I cannot control my happiness anymore; I burst out singing at the top of my voice.

Gerardo is coming out from the bed room, fully dressed. He sees me in a blissful mood and shouts, “By Golly! Are you singing? From the morning? Even snapping your fingers, son of a bitch? It’s too much, isn’t it? People have to go to a job, man! It’s too offensive!”

I give him a huge grin.

He slightly cocks his head deprecatingly in order to show his displeasure that implies, “Gerardo Veloz cannot allow people to show too much happiness in the morning under his roof.” He bombs a loud fart as if it were his answer to my happiness. And then he disappears into the bathroom. After a few brief seconds, he is suddenly rushing out from the bathroom with a furious expression and bellowing, “Did you take a dump in this very morning, son of bitch?”

“Why?” I answer nonchalantly.

“There’s duky floating on the toilet disgustingly, man!”

“I must’ve forgotten to flash it. I thought it was a self-flash.”

“What? You forgot? Are you nuts? Do you think my apartment is a five star hotel? Self-flash, you say? It’s too much, man! I’ve been feeding you and allowing you to stay at my apartment for a gratis. And now you want me to flash your shit to boot? Son of a bitch, I’m not your fucking maid!” he is yelling at the top of his lungs and stamping back into the bathroom, slamming the door ferociously.

He is staying in the bathroom for good fifteen minutes and emerging satisfactory, as if he accomplished a significant task. It seems to me that evacuating made him somewhat ducky. He says serenely, “Shogo, you can use the bathroom now; it’s time for you to take a shower and go to Starbucks in order to commence seeking for publishers, man.”

“Yes, you’re right. I should get going on searching a home for my masterpiece,” I am standing up.

He opens the door for me amiably and let me enter the bathroom, smiling. He lifts up the lid of toilet, looks at me with a frolicsome grin and salutes, “Oh, Shogo, I presume I left a present for you. See you at the lunch.”

With that, he is scooting out like a firecracker.

When I see the inside horrifyingly, a huge turd is floating offensively on the toilet. “Son of  a Mexican bitch!” I yell and flash it repulsively.

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