I bet you’re one of those people who can’t remember the last time they pooped their pants. I bet that’s real nice. I bet you have an easier time negotiating rents, raises, and the price of that pair of Rag and Bone jeans you know you are always going to have the opportunity to remove before shitting. I bet you’re just more confident all-around, safe in the knowledge that you and your butthole trust each other to stay calm and communicate if something goes awry. You can march into any situation knowing that you will not march right back out with your own poo-poo running down your legs.
Me? I’m not so confident, or half as lucky.
It looks angry because IT IS ANGRY.
I once spent two days in bed, calling in sick to work, crying over the ache in my stomach completely unable to poop or eat, only to find out that I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome! It was this new thing they’d started calling all gut problems when the people complaining of those gut problems were otherwise young and healthy and started crying when you asked them how things at work were going. It’s when your body reacts to stress in your tum tum by literally sucking all of the water out of your poo and turning it into a pile of little rocks. But where does that water go? Don’t worry, you’ll have explosive diarrhea without warning that will be more like peeing out of your butt, except you can’t control the pee. The cure? Stop WORRYING!
I did my best to manage my diet, and got a new job, but about a year into it, things were getting hectic again. I couldn’t eat the way I wanted to because I never had time for a lunch break. So basically I was in a sitting position from 9 to 5, staring at a computer screen, and getting yelled at by a bunch of business students who were freaking out about whether they’d get six-figure jobs the moment they left school (spoiler alert: of course they did). I’d had sharp stomach aches and watery poops for a whole week, my stomach begging me to take it easy on easily procured junk foods, caffeine, and tight pantyhose. I was gassy and bloaty and generally all-around uncomfortable within ten minutes of eating anything. My insides were like Aunt Sue’s corpse that summer she died in her apartment and nobody found her for a week: full to’ burstin’ with all manner of stank.
So I was sitting there, listening to an investment banker-in-training tell me why I should let him take someone else’s appointment with Goldman Sachs, when it happened. I thought it was just a mildly embarrassing tummy gurgle, followed by what would most likely be a silent, uncontrollable, and totally noxious fart, but it was worse. I felt it pouring out of my butt with all of the force and fury of a deadly tsunami. Certain I’d soon have shit pouring over the sides of my chair, like the kid in second grade who I’d watched piss himself until it drained off his seat, I jumped up to limit the damage. I stared wide-eyed at the student, squeaked “EXCUSE ME,” and ran for the bathroom down the hall.
Do they come in Control Ass?
It was bad, very bad. Some kind of horrifying shit oil had burst forth from my lower intestine, completely soaking my underwear, and entirely coating the butt and thighs of my pantyhose. I was lucky in that it was not the chunky variety at all, just a LOT of a thick viscous liquid your guts produce to move things along. But it was unbelievably offensive-smelling, like a heap of dead bodies and poop curing in the sun on a dead body and poop farm in July.
My dress was fine, just a little spot on the lining of the skirt—most of the damage had been absorbed by the pantyhose, which were now stuck to my skin with my own shit juice.
I started to wash the pantyhose and underwear in the sink, which was an adventure in itself. The bathroom was a little 4×5’ room with a toilet and sink, but they’d seen fit at some point to enclose the toilet inside a mini-stall. As it was the only bathroom on the floor, I guess they thought they’d make it as easy as possible for someone to wait their turn by the sink a half a foot away from you while you peed on the other side of a thin piece of metal. So it’s not like I had any real privacy. I had to lean toward the sink, rinsing my dainties, balancing on one leg in the middle of the room and holding the door shut with my other leg outstretched behind me in some kind of Scummy Warrior yoga move that not only would have resulted in a total calamity if someone had forced the door open, but would also have flashed my splayed open twat and bare ass to everyone in the hall.
I scrubbed everything with hand soap, dried it as best I could with the hand dryer, and put it back on. I told my boss I wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. I could tell she thought I was lying (couldn’t she smell the POOP?), but I still wasn’t desperate enough to say, “I just shit myself, I’m 31, can I go home and lie face down on the floor of my apartment in the dark, please?”
I took the subway home, which took over an hour and included a transfer to a bus, and even though I wasn’t the smelliest person on that bus by a long shot, I felt smelly INSIDE.
Where my feelings live.