Shit Happens

A little over a month ago, I had something happen to me that I never thought could happen to me; something I like to believe happens to more people than you would think. I contemplated on whether or not I should come forward and tell my story, and after a lot of reflection and inner-turmoil, I've decided that it is time. I do not tell this story to make you laugh and/or chuckle--though I'm assuming that some of you will. I tell this story so that others with the same story will feel comfortable coming forth and telling theirs.

There's a lot of difficult things that come with adulthood: bills, work, household duties, increased responsibility across the board, relationships--especially relationships. The bonds you share with friends and family and significant others (you know, if you're into that whole sister wives kind of situation), become more complex with the strain on your time and attention. Inevitably, complications arise and your relationships become more and more taxing. You start to feel resentment for those around you because they're not coming through for you in the ways they used to--you're essentially left with just yourself. It's bad enough when your friends shit on you--but it's even worse when you shit on yourself.
After an exciting episode of Grey's Anatomy, I decided to step outside and give my mom a call, because that's what my life has turned into--watching my shows, then giving my mom a call to do a thirty minute recap of an hour long program. I noticed that I was starting to get off track about this season's constant turmoil between Meredith and Cristina, so I told my mom, in my standard candid fashion, that I needed to get off the phone, go inside, and take a poop. In her standard fashion, she said, "Thank you for that overshare," and then I went inside.

As I stepped in the doorway, I thought to myself, Oh gosh, I really have to go to the bathroom, and then a couple steps later, standing in the living room right there in front of Kerry Washington and the entire cast of Scandal it happened: I pooped on myself. It was as if my body had just completely abandoned all communication with my mind. My body had gone full-Sarah-Palin-rogue, and all I could do was stand there and take it all in. You always imagine what it might be like if you pooped on yourself, but from personal experience, you really have no idea what it's actually like until, well, it happens.
I shuffled (because full fledged running seemed like a terrible idea) to the downstairs bathroom so that I could assess the damage and do as much ground zero clean up as possible. I looked over and saw the most terrifying thing that you can see post-tragedy: no toilet paper. At this point, I was completely out of options other than relocation. However, that meant going upstairs--the downstairs is so much safer because everything is hardwood, but everything upstairs is carpeted, and that just seemed like I was asking for a disaster. Plus, no one was downstairs, and if I trudged up the stairs, I ran the risk of running into someone and potentially having to explain what happened--I wasn't ready for that, not then. Without any other solution, I opened the door and started to leave and there stood my roommate, David. Where the hell did he come from? Feeling like I needed to explain why I was in the downstairs bathroom, I quickly said, "No toilet paper." I'm not really sure why I said it because he never asked why I was in there or why I was leaving, but it felt right at the time. Then he reached over to the counter and said, "Wanna try out the paper towels?" Um, no David. I don't want to try the paper towels. I want to go back in time seven minutes and undo all of this. That's what I want. I laughed and started to walk away and he said, "Dude, you okay? You're walking like you have a stick up your ass." Ironically, that was the complete opposite of the situation.
I made it to the upstairs bathroom, but the damage was worse now. The only surefire way to deal with this was just to evacuate the situation entirely and dispose of any evidence that it ever happened. I got into the shower to try and wash away all of the shame, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the disappointment was there for good. I imagine that anyone who defecates in their pants is never quite the person they were before the incident. Something inside of you, not outside, changes... maybe it's that you're incredibly humbled by the unpredictability of bodily functions. Either way, I finished showering and stepped onto the bathroom mat and realized there was a whole other situation at my feet... literally. The jeans I was wearing escaped any damage, but it's faithful friend on the inside was not so lucky. They were the Bubba of this Forrest Gump story, and much like Bubba, we had to tell the skivvies goodbye.
So I ran to my room and grabbed an extra bag from 7-11 that I had laying around. I placed our faithful friend in the bag and decided that once everyone had gone to bed, I would take them away and dispose of them--because no self-respecting man can put his dirty business in his own trash can. I sat down to get on my laptop, and I felt them sitting over there in the corner... staring at me or something, so I went downstairs back to the living room. I couldn't bear the guilt of having them right there in front of me, whilst Facebook-ing. They would be fine on their own until later when I would run them off to a public dumpster or something.
I stayed up and watched Carrie that night, and at 1:00am, I knew it was time. The deed had to be carried out. I called my mom again, because it only seemed appropriate as she was the first person I called when it happened. She got all the laughs in that she needed to, so she was going to stay up and be my phone accomplice as I put an end to the horror story that was my fateful Thursday evening. I had pre-decided upon 7-11, since I already had the evidence in the appropriate bag. As I started to pull in, a cop pulled in behind me really close and followed me into the parking lot. He pulled up beside of me and sat there, staring. It was as if an officer had been watching me all night, and as I got in my car, he radio-ed in and said, Um, we have a number 2 on our hands. Follow the suspect to see if he disposes on his messy drawers. Copy? 
Under pressure, especially from cops, I do what most Americans do and act suspiciously as possible. Suddenly, I started using overly-active hand gestures and laughing for no apparent reason to try and look "natural," but in retrospect, I just looked crazy. The cop was not leaving. After talking on the phone for about five minutes, I decided I had to go in and buy something. After I got back out to my car, he just sat there looking at me, and I realized--I'm going to have to bear this burden for a few more hours. I drove home and put the evidence in my trunk, simply because there was no other place to put it. Eventually, I did dispose of what needed to be taken care of nearly 24 hours after the original incident took place.
In short, shitting your pants is actually a lot more complex, humiliating, and difficult than you would think. I hear my friends talk about scary situations or really intense movies and respond with, "I almost shit my pants." But to me, it's not a joke. It's not something you laugh at, and it's not something you can relate to. Shitting your pants is a unique experience like fighting in the Vietnam War or watching the Lifetime remake of Steel Magnolias in one continuous sitting. Shitting your pants is not something that you ever truly come back from, and it's definitely not something that you joke about. But like a lot of the hardships that I've overcome in my life, I'm a better person for it. If you've pooped on yourself, be brave and remember that you're not alone. Be strong enough to tell your story, because like most things in life, we can only move forward by moving together.

Zero Poop Thirty or The Poopcident

If you've ever met a Resident Assistant, you know that his or her job is the most important job of anyone else's on campus... at least, that's how an RA would tell it. I had the fortune/burden/opportunity of being an RA for three years, and after a long string of pot smokers, people who enjoyed loud coitus, nineteen year olds who announce their beer bongs in the hallway before they attempt it, and the occasional roommate-from-hell, you find yourself being a senior RA, and you're just tired. No one knocks at your door because they want to see you, and sometimes, when someone would knock on my door, I would run and hide in my closet or the kitchen... kind of like when Jehovah's Witnesses come to your house.
But in all fairness, you are warned before you take the position about all of the complications that come along with it. We're trained to handle them, and after a while, you suppose that you've seen it all. My freshman year, a guy in my building pooped out his window because he was afraid he couldn't make it to the bathroom in time. Unfortunately, the guy who lived below him had his window propped open and was greeted with a special surprise that thumped his window like a brick. Sure, I laughed until I nearly passed out from lack of oxygen, but in the course of three years, I was prepared for such an incident. Pooping, after all, is some serious shit.
Second semester of my senior year, I was riddled with studying for my comprehensive exams, finishing grad school applications, and fulfilling all of the things that I had missed in the previous three years (multiple snap judgments, drinking in bars, hasty relationship choices, et al). But one night a week, I was assigned to duty (okay, seriously... the poop puns are out of control), and on that night, I was responsible for the livelihood of our building and the residents that lived there, or at least the ones that I liked. Most of my night consisted of me walking around and talking to people, taking a nap, fixing something to eat, walking around some more, and then going to bed earlier than I would on a night that I wasn't on duty. And it was always in those hours that things happened that would never happen if I had been awake. That's not to say that I could have stopped them, but for some reason, it wasn't until I had fallen asleep that a fire alarm would go off, or someone would get their arm caught in a window, or that someone got trapped in the trash chute after smoking too much marijuana.
But on one night in particular, late in the evening after all the other hoodlums had gone to bed, it happened: someone shit under the stairs. I suppose that in the grand scheme of things, the biggest issue should have been that someone defecated underneath the stairs and was probably too drunk to realize it, but the biggest problem in my mind is that the poop wasn't found for nearly 24 hours. I've had some pretty pristine pooping experiences in my time, but I can't imagine that any poop is so glorious that it should ever go unnoticed for nearly an entire day. The whole situation made me doubt my ability to be an RA--if I can't use my Snoopy skills to detect that someone has casually pooped in the building in a frequently trafficked place, then really... what am I good for? To add injury to insult, another RA found the feces, reported it, and got to put up a building notice.

If it's been a while since you've been in college, it's a known fact that there's nothing in the world that infuriates a college student more than getting charged for something they didn't do. People who originally thought that the under-the-stairs-poop was the funniest thing since Modern Family, were all of a sudden up in arms about the situation, angrily stating, I'm not going to be charged for someone else's shit. As an RA, the charge didn't apply to me. I could poop anywhere I wanted free of charge... not that I would or did, but I liked knowing the option was there. After seeing how angry everyone was, I knew that this was my opportunity: if I could solve the mystery of the phantom defecator, then I would not only win the affection of all my residents, but I could also redeem myself in the eyes of administration. This was my comeback. If I were Lindsay Lohan, this could be my Liz and Dick.
The next night I was on duty, I formed a small group in the parlor of our building. Knowing that I had not fulfilled my programming requirements for the month, I decided to make it a program because if there's anything that people in our generation get sheer enjoyment from, it's blaming other people for stuff. Soon, a group of fifteen or so of us gathered with the Irish exchange student leading the charge against every person who walked through the area we were sitting in. In her thick accent, she would berate people as they walked in, asking them when and where they were on the night of what became known as the "poopcident." After a while, we started forming a timeline and the only hours unaccounted for were the hours between 2:00 and 4:00am. We had narrowed down our suspects to three with a heavy suspicion on one of my fraternity brothers. Did I like the idea of going after one of my own in the face of justice? No. Did it make all the sense in the world that one of my fraternity brothers was the one who pooped under the stairs? Absolutely.
Eventually, the meeting became a witch hunt and none of the three were safe, one of which was a girl. People wanted justice--people wanted answers for the poopcident. From across the room, someone texted me and told me that they had information I'd be interested in. The number was blocked, which is something I'm still surprised you can do via text message. I met them in the prearranged place, hoping that when I stepped away that Rachel, the Irish student, wouldn't instigate a full on attack on the rooms of the suspected. The texter was an eye witness to the poopcident, and as I suspected, it was my fraternity brother who shat in the first floor stairwell.

And just like that, I imagine that I shared the same feeling that Jessica Chastain's character in Zero Dark Thirty felt. She had spent all this time looking for Osama bin Laden, and then... (spoiler alert) they killed him. It was all over except the paperwork (and just for the record, being an RA requires a stupid amount of paperwork). When you invest all of this time in working to figure out the crime and the hidden location of your suspect, you've come to realize that you have put a part of yourself into this shit. You come out a different person, and even when your "Osama bin Laden" ends up being one of your fraternity brothers, you've made a big enough stink about it that you have to report it. Your nation... or residents... whatever... depend on you to instill justice. So without being able to predict one of the biggest blockbuster hits to come in two years, I asked myself What Would Jessica Chastain Do? or WWJCD? and then I wrote up the report. Word didn't get out of who exactly pooped under the stairs, but for the select few that know, it paints a dark picture of what can happen to you when you decide to funnel liquor. And for me, well, that's the last RA mystery that I ever solved. Sometimes, when life gives you a load that big, you just have to call it quits once you're done.

The Legend of "Ass and Cats" and Friends

When I decided to go to a private liberal arts college, it seemed as if it was going to be a haven for smart, intellectuals who liked to sip coffee and talking about the political happenings in Egypt, and while that was the case to some extent, it really was more of a haven for weird people. And I don't say that as a condescending proclamation. It takes a truly weird person to be able to identify other weird people, but I like to believe that my freak flag is one that is a little more appropriate to fly in public. On the up and up, successful people at Maryville College were commonly people who were too busy in academia to be successful in high school. We were not particularly well bred for social interaction, and in the safe bubble of campus, we didn't have a lot of help with that. And because of our core classes, we were given the opportunity to dabble in subjects across the board, exposing us to the different kinds of weird that dominated each major. I settled in the English department, my favorite collection of freaks: we spent our times wrapped up in words, too busy to acknowledge that we only spoke to each other in metaphors and anecdotes, and too pompous to even consider that there could be another major better than us.
But the best thing about being in the English department is that I could always rely on someone being a little more weird than me. For the longest time, I always depended on the guy who consistently wore cargo shorts to class and would relate every piece of feminist literature to being raised by his mother, his grandmother, and his aunt. It was like waiting on the whitest version of The Secret Life of Bees every single class. I didn't come into college as an English major, but rather stumbled on to it by accident. I was originally going to be pre-med, but after a lack of witty Grey's-like banter and a lot of really intense peers, I decided that I didn't want to do that after all. Discovering that I enjoyed the witty banter more, I doubled up with Communications and English, instead. I spent my days listening to how my peers were scorned by the over-feminization of their childhoods and countless tales about how the despair of being fifteen led them to be an English major. I always just kind of liked words, so I was left out of all the perils and angst that most English kids took to get there.
Our senior year, we had to take comprehensive exams, a test that can cover any material in any class, which is a literature major's worst nightmare considering that very few of us actually read most of the material that we covered in class. We were all focused the week before, when we were asking one of our professors how many people have failed the test, a feat that could land you in an unwelcomed fifth year of college. None of us had been sleeping, so we were all on edge. As our professor was answering our question, one girl screamed out from the back of the room and started crying. She ran out of the room and disappeared into the hallway; between her screams and my lack of sleep, I almost passed out, and I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up.
She came back into the room and announced that she had seen a wasp, when I turned my head around Exorcist style and barked back, What the hell is your problem? Sit your ass down. My professor told me to calm down, but in all fairness, I wasn't the one that exploded in fear over a wasp. I've never dealt well with people who have such strong reactions to such small events--kind of like the girls who would scream when someone would turn the lights off in elementary school. Why? What are we achieving? Nothing, but so is the problems with a class full of strung-out, sleepless weirdos.
But no one tops the young man I shared my World Cultures: Islam class with. We affectionately came to know him as "Ass and Cats," after a couple of close calls my friend had with him in class. I was never an expert at getting to class early, nor really good at getting to class on time. As I was casually strolling out of my dorm at 9:27 to get to my 9:30, I got a text that said Get to class now. Ass and cats is trying to sit next to me. I need you to get here, stat. When I got to class, I asked her who Ass and Cats was, and she pointed to him. I asked her why his name was Ass and Cats and she very stated, Because he smells like ass. And cats. Ass and cats. We kept Ass and Cats our secret, as if we had just discovered that Bruce Wayne was Batman. We protected each other from the prospect of Ass and Cats who was generally known for going full blown Chopin on his keyboard in the middle of class.
One day, he was going exceptionally hard in the keyboard paint when he announced in the middle of one of our professor's lectures Shut up. I was hoping that maybe I was the only one who had heard it, but the entire class turned around to catch a glance at the young man. Our professor didn't miss a beat. A couple minutes later, the typing grew increasingly louder when he yelled out, SHUT UP. Our professor stopped in the middle of the lecture and finally addressed him, Excuse me? He casually said, Oh, I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to my computer. Ass and Cats must have felt my sympathetic vibes because we've all been in that place where we've awkwardly been mistaken for yelling at our professor before... okay, maybe not the exact situation, but I know what it's like to feel awkward, so I felt bad.
After class, I noticed that he tailed me very closely as I walked out the door. He only stayed a couple steps behind me, and though I didn't keep tabs, I could feel his presence behind me. Knowing that I was being followed, I took a couple of wrong turns to obscure parts of campus to see if I could lose him. No luck. Eventually, I went into the campus chapel and turned around to see him standing face to face with me. He looked at me and announced, Why are you following me? And just like that, in his own world, I had become the awkward one. In some very topsy-turvy parallel world, the tables had turned, and I was the weird liberal arts kid that I had so desperately tried to avoid. And then it hit me... maybe I was the awkward one.
The only way that anyone is awkward is through the perspective of another person, and though I wasn't raised in a non-prostituting brothel nor had a panic attack over an insect nor yelled at my professor, that didn't fully rule me out of being the awkward liberal arts kid. For all I know, I could be the Ass and Cats of my DC life, going around smelling like an obscure combination of feces and felines. So I try to consider what the repercussions of judging others is, and what it's like to potentially being the off one of the group. None of us are exempt, even the public school graduates. The world is unforgiving, and we're all only one nickname away from being an awkward urban legend of yesteryear.

Did You Fart On My Pillow?

As a resident assistant for three years, I never had to turn in a single situation revolving around alcohol, which is seemingly the most obvious offense that an RA would have to deal with. In every college party gone awry, there is some jerk who shows up with a badge and a clip board and busts the party up because "freshman Kelly" knew some of the soccer guys and she was really cute and she only drink Smirnoff... blah, blah, blah. That never happened to me. As long as I could look up at the building and not see anyone hanging completely out the window with a bottle of Jager in their hands (you have to have both because I saw plenty of people just normally hanging out the window), then I didn't really care all that much to bust people. I only had two issues that normally came up in my building: people wanting to harm themselves or poop. Out of respect and class, we'll focus on the poop (which is the only time I'll ever be able to fashion that sentence in my life).

This child would NEVER have had pink eye.

I should have known that poop would be a common factor in my college experience, as I seemed to be constantly surrounded by it from the time I got there. As an elementary school student, I was never one of those children that ended up with lice or pink eye. We shunned those students and commonly talked about how their parents must make them sleep on the ground whilst washing themselves in the same bath water over and over. There had to be something wrong with those children's home lives. If you wanted to be decently respected as an elementary school success story, you better never have lice or pink eye, and if you did, it didn't hurt if you brought your Lite Brite to school so other kids could play with it and eventually forgive you. So, naturally, I was devastated to find out as a nineteen year old college student that I had... pink eye.
When I went to the nurse, I was practically berated with a slew of uncomfortable and accusatory questions: Have you found yourself in the company of a lot of smoke? I can't remember my last Def Leppard concert, but I'm going to go with no. Do you not wash your hands after going to the bathroom and then touch your face? No, I do not wipe my butt then take my contact out. Has anyone had any sexual contact with your eye? Are you serious right now? I actually had to pause when answering this question to interpret how someone could feasibly have sexual contact with my eye, and furthermore to contemplate who in the world would attempt the ludicrous things that my mind was coming up with. After some soul searching, I had determined: no. No one had had sexual contact with my eye.
The doctor went on to explain that somehow, some kind of bacteria had crept its way into my eye and made home, kind of like when you move into a new apartment and have a "nesting ritual." This was not the allergy related type of pink eye that people could justify by coming up with a convenient reaction to grass or mold. This was the nasty kind; essentially the STD of the ocular world. I had, by some measure, been eye raped.
I wore my dark rimmed glasses to cover up the shame, but it was no use. People would ask me about my eye and what had happened. Without any warning or lying ability, I would tell them of my infectious disease and they would look at me like a nasty animal. I was the equivalent of a malnourished cat with little eye crusties on the edge of its eyelids. I was an ophthalmological pity case. Some thief in the night was responsible for this; I knew it. I was too clean, too careful for this kind of thing to happen to me. I washed my pillowcases bimonthly. I wasn't the type of person who got pink eye. I felt like the Hester Prynne of the visual world, with my puffed up eye being the letter A I would carry around to proclaim my shame to the world, and in my ignorance of how pink eye was spread, I began to wonder how much other people knew. What if they went around chattering among each other, I can't believe he let someone do that to his eye! I didn't know he was into that freaky stuff... It was too much. There had to be an answer.
So when I was talking to my freshman roommate about the whole ordeal, he said, Maybe Zak did something. I looked at him and said, What do you mean 'maybe Zak did something?' He then began to tell me, with that impossibly smug smile on his face that at one point the week before, he let a guy into our room that had something for me. Then when he was leaving the room, he said that the guy was pulling his pants up. I was livid. Who forgets to tell someone when someone was coming to leave your roommate something then leaves pulling his pants up? How is that a detail that you forget to mention to someone. Sure, I accidentally ate your last pack of Ramen; sorry I didn't mention it, or I meant to tell you that someone called your phone while you were in the bathroom, but if there's one thing I wouldn't forget to mention it's Someone came to leave you something in our room, and they left pulling up their pants.
I immediately starting asking around, trying to pick up any clues that anyone would have. Most people knew nothing, but for those who obviously did, it was like watching an excerpt out of a college version of Winter's Bone. I expected one of them to pull me aside with a Dale Dickey voice and say, I told you to listen. You should have listened. I wanted finality for this crime, but no one would offer me any information to help me solve it. Just a smile and a shrug followed by, I don't know what you're talking about. It's not like I was speaking in a foreign language or asking about international relations between Guam and Peru; I was asking if anyone knew if Zak had air shat on my pillow. No one would answer; no one cared... not like I did.
And the mystery would go on to be ultimately unsolved. Sometimes people would talk about that one guy that got pink eye from the guy who farted on his pillow, but no one would ever mention names. They're secrets were safe in the bonds of idle chit chat and gossip, and when I was around, the conversation would stop. But I know, I always know. And it's a terrible prank, nothing like putting someone's fingers in water to see if they'll pee the bed or seran wrapping a toilet seat. No, this is a dangerous game that requires antibiotics and strips the victim of their innocence and clear vision. The night after graduation, a group of us collected in the parlor of Carnegie. Zak was there as well, and I couldn't help myself. Because it was the last time most of us would see one another (and probably partly due to the half a box of wine I had drank), I had confidence I had never felt before. I asked him, in front of everyone, Zak, be real with me for a second. Did you fart on my pillow and give me pink eye? The room fell silent; we all knew exactly what I was talking about--a grudge that had never fully been let go.  As thoughtfully as he could, he looked at me and said, Dude. No. I didn't fart on your pillow. I would admit to it if I did. But the problem is, once someone flatuates on your pillow, you never really come to trust anyone again fully. Even your best friends, and to this day, I have promised myself two things: 1) I will never again leave my pillows unattended. 2) I will find who gave me pink eye, even if it takes cutting off their hands in the middle of a lake.

Grocery Store Social Hour

Growing up, we had enough to get by, but like most families that lived outside of the subdivisions of South Knoxville, we didn't have a whole lot more than that. It never bothered me growing up because I didn't know any better. We'd make the occasional trip to the movies if we had it extra or maybe a trip to the mall, but I didn't know those things as a regular occurrence until I was older, once Dad stopped working construction and started his own business. In the meantime, our family would fill our Friday nights going to the grocery store or Walmart and mingling with the other families that would frequent the Chapman Highway superstores.
Most nights were pretty basic; Dad would get lost in sporting goods and find some hunting buddy from way back when or just some random guy who seemed to be buying the same box of shotgun shells as he was. Somehow, a conversation about a Remington 12 gauge turned into a two hour conversation, and we weren't sure what time we would get out of Walmart. Momma would get lost in the grocery aisles, and Casey and I would wonder aimlessly around the CDs looking at all the pop artists even though we were only allowed to listen to country for the longest time. The visits were pretty methodic; well, most of them.
I was about fifteen when we walked into the Walmart superstore; I was desperately seeking my way into the popular crowd and was making headway as a freshman, which was quite an accomplishment considering my wardrobe and the thickness of my wire-rimmed glasses. I was riding on a self-deprecating sense of humor and a dashing personality, and all of that had me barely holding on by a thread. Regardless, I was on my way to hanging out with the superior Christians of the high school crowd, and there was nothing that screamed success like hanging out with the elitist Christian crowd. I had met a couple of them from the soccer team I was on; the progress I had made without a pinch of athletic ability was nearly unheard of.
All was going well until that visit. I was never ashamed of my family, but I had heard the kind of conversations my dad would have with the people he met in Walmart. It was essentially like bar talk; nothing was sacred in the aisles of Tide and Nabisco cookies. If there was something to be said, my dad would state it as bluntly as possible, no matter the neighborhood the conversationalist hailed from. So when I saw Elizabeth, a very influential but B-list popular girl, round the corner, I knew that we had to get away as quickly as possible. I made up a crush that I had on Elizabeth so that we could try and avoid her family, but that only fueled by dad's flame. Momma knew the ramifications that could come from such an interaction, but I was too late.
My parents had known Elizabeth's from soccer practice. The discussions there usually revolved around us, or about the team, or who was bringing the Capri Suns for Saturday's game. There was never much concern of any personal details because at that time, they weren't really close enough to disclose that kind of information. It had been a while since soccer season, and Southern white folk like to discuss personal things with people they haven't seen in a while... even if they weren't that close beforehand. I stood there looking at Elizabeth and her family as everyone started to talk. I wasn't sure what was going to come, but I felt in my bones that something terrible was about to happen.
Elizabeth's mom always had something noteworthy going on in her life, and most of the time, it was something absurd. Someone she knew had driven their car into their pool or she witnessed a fight at work and was almost strangled. From the kind of stories she told, it sounded more like she belonged in our neck of the woods instead of the upscale subdivision they lived in. Nothing would top the story she told that day; the story that eventually led to my downfall from the elitist Christians.
When a mishap like this happens, it's hard to blame one individual party. My initial anger stormed toward my dad. He couldn't have turned the candor off for just a second, but eventually, I chocked it up to fate and elitism. It was as if Elizabeth's mom knew that I was gunning for a place in the elitist Christian circle, and as most people know, it's much more difficult to move up in rank than it is to move down. High school was not the place to move upward, and I should have known better. After a little bit of small talk, Elizabeth's mom started,
Well, things have been really difficult lately. I've been having colon problems, and I was actually hospitalized for a couple days. One day I was sitting at the house and then it happened. I felt something weird, and then I started... defecating... out of my mouth. It just backed up, and then I defecated out of my mouth.
There was nothing that could save us. Save her. Save anyone. I looked at my mom, and she gave me these eyes as if she were already apologizing to me. We knew that what come next couldn't be good, so we just waited until my dad responded through broken laughter. I'm sorry, did you just say that you... shit... out your mouth? Mom gently closed her eyes and squeezed my hand as tightly as she could. Elizabeth's mom turned to us, staring blankly as ever, Yes, that's what I said.
As if that wasn't enough, Dad needed clarification, So let me get this straight. You're telling me that you shit... out of your face. Startled, as if Dad had just made some inappropriate joke about cancer or a dead baby, she composed herself and responded, Well, yes. I guess you could put it that way. Dad couldn't stop laughing at everything that had just happened, and if I hadn't had so much shallow hope riding on the situation, I probably would have, too. It's not very often that our Friday nights were so spiced up with fecal stories, so it was an occasion to be had. Of course, Dad didn't think too much of the situation, but I was devastated. I looked at Elizabeth as if it were the last time I would ever see her again, and if I remember correctly, it wasn't long after that I was excommunicated to the other side of the classroom. My chair was gone in class and it was all at the hand of Elizabeth's mommy's potty mouth.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to those Friday nights and remind myself that the people I saw on Friday nights were probably much less important than I ever thought they were. Most of them are married with children now, living just a couple blocks down from the houses they grew up in. When I get lonely in the summers, looking for something to do, I find myself on the Chapman Highway Walmart looking around for another story that could rival some of the golden nuggets that I stumbled upon as a youngster. And in the end, I'm thankful that I never made it in to elitist Christian circle because if I had, I would be a husband, a father, and voting for Mitt Romney, and I'm not ready for any of those things.

Nothing Like a Little Hard Work and Defecation

For Elizabeth Dunn. Thanks for putting up with a lot of shit with me... or at least a night's worth.

There are two things that I hate more than anything in the world: vomiting and poop. And Gabourey Sidibe from Precious. Three things. Yeah. But vomit and poop would definitely take the top two spots. When I was younger, I would get sick and throw up so hard that the blood vessels in my eyes would burst. I looked similar to one, Natalie Portman, in Black Swan. Since childhood, I have done everything in my power to keep from throwing up. The only thing that rivals vomit in my eyes is poop. I've never been a big fan of any kind of bodily fluids, but there's something super disgusting about poop. That's why I plan on hiring illegal help to change my children's diapers. I won't be responsible for that; I can barely stand my own poop. I'm not one of those people that looks back into the toilet to see what I've done. I like being done with my business as soon as I can be.

I'm aware that it's a natural process. I've read the literature. Everyone also dies and has taxes; I don't like to think about those things either. If there's one thing that I cannot tolerate, it's the idea that someone would ever poop on themselves. I once had a close call sitting in the Student Involvement Office with a friend and the two Student Programming Board advisors. I thought I had a simple silent flatulence, but it happened to be the ever-dreaded "shart." I knew what kind of trouble I was in, so I quickly clenched, braced myself on the two armrests and thrust myself up from the chair. I swiveled my hips back and forth, using the oddest set of motor skills to excuse myself to the bathroom. Luckily, by the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I came up clean. Someone bigger than us was watching over me that day. I never talked about that day; actually, this is the first time that I'm confronting the issue head on. Pooping is serious business, and the last thing that I would consider it some kind of joke. Shame on you for thinking that poop is something to be scoffed at.

This is Bridget with the actual gnome.
She's pretty jazzed to see him

However, the only thing that has ever combatted my fear and hatred of poop is the safety of another human. I suppose I should elaborate. One special night my senior year, a night we at Maryville like to call "Senior Beer and Wings," the seniors are served... beer and wings. I know, plot twist. Because my class spent 3.25 years brown nosing, most of them were at least slightly buzzed 1.25 Bud Light Limes in. Of course the only way to legitimately celebrate four years of hard work is to visit a classy establishment. Somewhere like a community center or a nice restaurant. That's why we all went to The Roaming Gnome. The Roaming Gnome is about two miles from campus: a fantastic equation for a class of people who really have no idea how to hold their alcohol in the first place. I digress. However, there was one little gemstone in the rough that really stood out that night. She wasn't a regular at the class gathering scene, but I had a couple classes with her in the past. No need to leave her out. 

As then night progressed, I started noticing the actions of my classmates. I'm an observer: often assuming the role of "mother" at social events with more than seven people. The girl, from here forward referred to as "Diamond" (the most precious of gemstones), seemed to be downing a lot of blue concoctions throughout the evening. My personal rule with alcohol is drink it straight or mix it with other alcoholic things, but there's no need to be drinking anything called "Sex on the Beach with a side of dry sand served on pieces of rock salt and crack cocaine." That's too much of a mouthful for me. Give me an LIT, thanks. My mother's intuition kicked in, and I saw Diamond being escorted out the door by some random man I didn't know. I followed them out and asked Diamond for a cigarette. I knew it would take her at least four minutes minimum to flush one out of her purse, which gave me just enough time to have a conversation with the smartest man I've ever met. The conversation goes as such:

Justin: Hey man, she's really messed up. You should probably just go on without her.

Diamond's Rapist: Dude, she wants to go with me.

Justin: Dude. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know her name right now.

Diamond's Rapise: F--- this.

Justin: Yeah, it's disappointing. I'm sorry.

I had to explain to Diamond that her not-fiance had left without her. In response, I think that made her order more. Eventually, I found her again laying down on a table. I'm not a frequent bar goer, but I don't think it's kosher to go limp on the bar table. Honestly, in retrospect, I think she was napping before her food came. (I still don't know when she ordered food, or how for that matter). However, I knew it was time for her to go home. I enlisted the help of Elizabeth to help her up, but once we lifted her, Elizabeth let out a giant "Ohhhhhh!" Elizabeth let go of her arm and she fell back into the seat. It wasn't long after that I understood what had happened. Her descent into the seat sent the answer straight to my nostrils... that's when I said it. Ooooooh, baby girl, you pooped on yourself.

Like many situations involving tragedy, I blocked a great deal of the immediate aftermath out. I forget how exactly we got her to her car, but the next thing I knew, she was in the passenger seat, and I was in the driver's. We were sitting there. In it. Smack in the remains of ground zero. I quickly found the windows and had the second best exchange of the night.

Justin: Diamond, what's your address?

Diamond: I don't know.

Justin: Diamond, can you give me directions?
Diamond: I don't know.

Justin: Diamond, did you poop on yourself?

Diamond: I don't know.

It seemed we were going in circles. Eventually, I found her address from an envelope in her car. My friend followed behind to give me a ride back. We got to her street and she slurred, "Just stop the car here. I can drive." I responded, "I don't think that's a great idea." She retorted, "My mom can't know about this." I finished with, "Well, I feel like she's going to know when she finds your pants in the morning." Checkmate.

Later, I would talk to Diamond, and she assured me that it was only a twenty minute continuous fart. But as an opposer of all things feces related, I know a pair of nasty drawers when I smell them. Do I regret my decision to help a fellow human in the face of, well, poop? I don't know. Would I do it again? Probably not. Does it only reinforce my hatred of poop? Absolutely.