ascetic ovenbird I always buy the cheapest toilet paper. The scratchy kind, Costco-sized, the kind that lasts a small eternity. This seems like the responsible, adult thing to do. As if I might atone for my sins with frugality and mortification of the flesh. A month or so ago my regular toilet paper was out of stock. I had to upgrade to the fancier kind. The one with a cuddly bear on the front stroking her own face with bathroom tissue like a handkerchief given to her by a long-distance lover. That bear looked positively ORGASMIC. I brought the toilet paper home. The first time I used it I knew I would never go back. All this time I could have avoided the vague discomfort of abrasion. For a few more dollars I could have been wiping myself with the toilet paper equivalent of Egyptian cotton. Do I do this in other ways? Do I minimize my own comfort in a misguided attempt to prove that I’m low maintenance and satisfied with the most basic amenities? Do I deny myself simple pleasures because that seems like the most virtuous thing to do? I think I have done this. I think I DO this, but I also see myself rebelling against my own parsimony. I’m old, and getting older. I’m drying up from the inside. I want to be wrapped in silk that I can caress with my withering fingers until I am boiled alive in the cocoon that will become my funeral shroud. 260415 what's it to you? who go blather from