There are many things in my life that I've decided is unhealthy. Many of them are things like battery acid, sweaters, snorting Tide laundry detergent, and pedophiles. These things are dubbed as unhealthy to me, because they'll hurt you. As a young kid, I never realized that ANY of these things were unhealthy, because I was too focused on one thing: poop.

Yeah. Poop.

Pooping fucking hurt.

I had a colon issue when I was a child. Something inside of me wasn't working correctly, making it very difficult, not to mention painful, each time I attempted to go to the bathroom. It hurt to the point where I started to avoid going to the bathroom for days on end, my stomach cramping from all the excess toxins inside of me, and my butthole starting to ache from being clenched for so long. It was a struggle to hold my life together, because I was so literally full of shit that I couldn't do anything else.

I remember one time where I just fucking refused to go to the bathroom. I was playing with my favorite teddy bear, named Angie, when I felt it. The horrible drop in my small intestine that let me know that it was time to, once more, go to the depths of hell and suffer through a sore rectum for the next few hours. I wasn't about to go through that again. I would rather die than have that pain. So I held it in. I did. I managed to keep it in until the feeling receded. And then life was all good again, and poopy troubles were forgotten. But a mere few hours later, I felt it again. This time it was worse, the pain in my lower abdomen a bit harder, a bit more fierce, making my butt pulse with what I thought was radioactive waste. My mom, noticing that I was starting to squirm and mumble angrily under my breath, looked at me and gave me the suggestion of me going to the bathroom. I looked at her dead in the eye and said, "NO."

That was probably my first fatal mistake.

That woman ran to the fridge faster than I've ever seen her run. In fact, to this day, that's the fastest she's ever moved. She grabbed this carton from inside the fridge, poured the contents into a cup, and gave it to me with the single command of 'drink'. I looked down into my cup, seeing my small reflection in the purplish liquid. I thought it was grape juice or something. Confused on why my mom would give me fruit juice after I had told her off so blatantly, I drank it. And then there was the worst taste on my tongue than I could've ever imagined. It's what I think that Lindsay Lohan's vagina probably tastes like, or the skin underneath Honey BooBoo Mother's chin flab. It tasted absolutely horrendous, and in a panic, I swallowed it to get rid of the taste.

I looked at my mom as though she had poisoned me. I thought she had for a moment. She just nodded and said "Drink it" again.

Nope. I refused to do it. It tasted like carpet fuzz.

But that one large swig of disgusting unidentifiable liquid made my stomach gurgle a few moments afterward. And then the drop in my stomach was uncontrollable, and before I could even say the words 'oh no', I knew that it was time to go and unleash the Kraken.

The poor toilet never saw it coming.

There have been quite a few times in my life where poop has completely fucked me over. It seems as though I have to go to the bathroom at the worst of times, especially when I'm doing something important. If I was talking to a cute boy I liked, a fart would silently bubble to my asshole and whisper, "I wish to come out now, master". If I was just taking a simple pee in the ladies room in public, suddenly it turned into a full on poop session right then and there, taking no mercy for the person who would go in after me. More than once I silently apologized for the next girl going into the stall I just left, knowing that they'd be suffering for the entirety of being in there. I had left behind a monster, the stench of my evil permeating their nostrils and settling into their skin, their perfume, laughing as tears sprang to their eyes. One time I had to go to the bathroom so badly, just getting over a stomach virus, when the worst poop chapter of my life happened.

I couldn't control it. I knew it was coming out whether I wanted it to or not, and my dignity was on the line. I was about to go into a higher grade, I sorta had friends. I had SOME pride in how I was. I couldn't be known for the girl who sharted her pants. As I was sitting there in class, squirming, dying, sweating profusely, I knew that if I let this happen, I would never live it down. Not even when I got married; it would be told by everyone everywhere and I would live alone with five thousand cats. I couldn't do that to myself. I had so much to live for.

Excusing myself from the class, I ran out into the hallway, allowing my armpits to air out a little bit. I dashed for the nearest restroom, praying to God, or whatever God there was, that I would make it on time.

I didn't. I was so close.

I had just pushed open the stall door, when I pushed too hard on my own body. And bam: it was born.

And by 'it', I mean monstrous horrendous thing. I had sharted myself. The damn thing had disguised itself as a fart, harmless and helpless, before transforming into another thing entirely. I stood there in the stall, frozen, realizing that I had poop in my underwear and that any sort of popularity and shred of self-respect I had was over.

By this point, I was in full-blown panic mode. Since I was wearing a skirt, I easily slid down my underpants past my ankles. I remember wincing at the sight of it. Oh, it was so gross. I didn't even want to face the repercussions of if someone found out. I quickly balled the soiled cloth, letting the liquidy brown pool on the inside while the stained white cloth was on the outside. Clenching it not so tightly in my hands, I ran out of the bathroom, the poopy panties still in my hands. I scanned the lockers in a panic, looking for my own. Where was it? I needed it now! Before anyone saw me with this disgusting ball of … shart. I couldn't find it, and then I realized that my locker was on the other side of the school entirely. I cursed myself, wondering why God hated me so much. I knew the clock was ticking. I knew that any minute now, we would be dismissed to go home. The halls would be flooded with people. And me and shart in the middle.

I spotted a locker in the corner of my eye. It was a kid who was a grade above me, if I remember correctly. I vaguely knew their face. In a blind rush, I ran over to their locker and yanked the stupid thing open. The locker was empty. So the kid hadn't showed up for school that day. Even better. I threw my poopy panties into the locker and quietly closed the door, wiping my sweaty hands on the metal. I felt so relieved. Now no one would know. I walked away from the locker and turned the corner, almost to my classroom, when the evening announcements came on. I easily walked into my class, grabbed my stuff, and went home for the evening, not even giving those poopy panties a second thought. I didn't need to either, because it was Friday. I had other things to worry about.

The following Monday was seared into my mind forever. I had gone into school, and gone to my homeroom. Unpacked my stuff. Started to read my book. Brushed back my hair with my hand. Went to my next class, and then it happened.

I saw that kid. The same kid who's locker I had stuffed the poopy panties into. He was heading to his locker. To his doom.

I watched this in slow motion. I watched him with horror.

That was when I noticed the smell. A slightly gross smell as though someone farted. It just wasn't going away. Now I knew what that was. Something was about to happen, and it was about to be really bad.

The kid opened his locker. The smell is what got him first. This horrible stench of fermented poo and rotten food and God knows what else just poured from the locker, finally freed of it's prison. It punched him full in the face. He didn't even have time to defend himself, he literally breathed in this poisonous cloud of shart juice. Then he noticed what was causing the horrible stench. It was, lo and behold, my poop panties. They were wilted now, oozing into the locker, rotting slowly in the hot confines of the small metallic space. It was slowly spreading around, melting literally into the spokes of the metal shelf.

I would've been embarrassed if I wasn't so horrified.

The kid's face went entirely white, and he made this small squeak of a sound, and then his body twitched unnaturally, and then he threw up all over his shoes and the lockers next to him. Then he started screaming, nearly crying, from the utter terror of it all. He was scarred, his mind and nose forever altered from the sight of that monstrous being I gave birth to.

Needless to say, the school jumped into panic. All I remember after that, and I assume I just blocked out most of that memory because I don't want to go through that humiliating experience again, but I remember some people coming in with suits. Big white ones, covered in head to toe. And they bought a bucket. One with a red symbol on the side of it, looking oddly dangerous. They cleaned out that locker for two hours, and no one was allowed in that hallway.

I done fucked up that kid. I wonder if he went to therapy. He threw up really hard.


You would think that a few years would mellow me out with these kinds of issues. That maybe puberty would help me realize that shitting myself in public and then stuffing the soiled cloth into someone else's space was wrong, and that I had to go to the bathroom like a normal person. And for the most part, I got that. Occasionally, I had some slip-ups. One time I had accidently clogged the toilet at my aunt's house, and instead of telling someone, I just left it like that and blamed my dad. Another time, I had to go really badly but I was in a stranger's house, so instead of asking to go to the bathroom and utterly destroy their toilet, I went into their backyard, behind a shrub, and nearly died there. Needless to say, that plant bloomed beautifully.

Anyway, high school leveled me out a bit. I didn't have as many as those unfortunate accidents anymore.

But other people did.

I remember I was sitting at home once, doing some homework, when I received a text message from my friend Chandler. Our conversation, although not entirely accurate, went something like this:

Chandler: I'm going to fucking kill someone!

Me: What?

Chandler: You don't know what just happened to me… I'm so pissed. Oh my god.

Me: .. What happened?

Chandler: I was on my way to put away my band stuff when I nearly stepped in shit. Actual shit. Not mud. It was actual poop.

Me: ...Band sucks. I told you so. Wipe it off and move on.

Chandler: you don't understand. I was INSIDE.

Me: … what…

Chandler: SOMEONE POOPED INSIDE THE SCHOOL. I NEARLY STEPPED IN IT.

Me: Omg what.

Chandler: WHO WOULD FUCKING DO THIS? THIS IS DISGUSTING. IT'S A TRAIL.. THERE'S A TRAIL.

Me: Lmfao. I'm laughing so hard..

Chandler: YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND

Me: Who did it?

Chandler: I HAVE NO IDEA. if I ever find out who did this, I'm telling everyone! People are so fucking gross…

Me: Accidents happen. Like that one time you accidently ate all that candy and threw up on our teacher.

Chandler: But I didn't fucking shit on our teacher now did I

I'm still laughing as I write this. It was really funny at the time. Chandler was so angry that he wanted to implode, and I could (secretly) sympathize with the mystery band pooper.

Two years later, as I'm sitting with my boyfriend in a restaurant, I'm eating and distantly listening to him tell a story to our other friends. The first thing that caught my ears was the word 'shit', followed by the words 'band'.

You can imagine what happened next.

My boyfriend, damn it all, was the fucking mystery pooper that Chandler nearly had the misfortune of stepping in. He had had a similar accident to me, this time not even remotely making it to the restroom before he started to release his monstrous shart juice. Not only did it get all over the floor, but all over the bathroom as well. He managed to slip away from that incident unscathed.

I turned to him with this shock on my face and yelped, "THAT WAS YOU!?"

He laughed for a good fifteen minutes after that, nearly crying as I ranted about how Chandler bitched to me for an hour about how he nearly stepped in someone else's poo trail.


As I see it, I can't get away from my poopy past. From the fact that my body doesn't want to ever give me a shred of dignity. And I guess I was paired with someone who also has that issue. Life has a strange way of pairing us together: by our colons.

I said before, there are many things I've deemed unhealthy. But I've taken this one off the list. The consequences are more dire if I ignore it, wouldn't you agree?