Poop

Think about the word. Say it to yourself a few times, roll it around your head, get the feel, bathe your thoughts in it, imagine its texture, colour, smell and properties until the inside of your head is revoltingly dirty.

Today I found some shit in the second floor bathroom, in the toilet. I felt like easing and went in there and saw this stagnant crust of dark mass, half-solid, half-liquid, but no, mostly solid. It had non-uniform discolouration here and there, and bits of it were reflecting light like moist things do.

I have no problem with my own shit. I flush it down. But I can’t bear other people’s shit. It’s dreadfully secret, it’s their own private dirty nature. When I come upon other people’s shit, it’s like coming upon a really embarrassing self-composed love poem in some guy’s diary, for that ball of fat in his class he often used to joke about. It’s private, it’s icky, it’s stumbling upon the darkest innards of another human being. That’s why I don’t like to have something deeply personal like my shit lying around for everyone to notice.

But this person obviously had differing ideas about his remains. Good, great, you can have your own philosophy, but why should that cause an interference in my course of life? Why should I find that… that crust of viscous solid in a spot where I expect clean water?

I was sure it was Sis. I went and reported the incident to her, and brought her to see the poop, and to apologize and flush.

She flatly denied that it was hers. She said it wasn’t her type, and that the person responsible had digestive problems. I think she tried to say that her poop looks better. Anyways, there’s this guy who’s supposed to swing by and finish some painting in the bathroom he’s been doing for… er… quite a while now, and we decided that he couldn’t be treated in this manner by this floating landmass. So I went downstairs while she flushed it. I could hear her squeals from down there as she flushed it. I can’t imagine how she can carry her own shit around inside her when she’s so touchy about it.

I later reported the incident to the other household members. None of them affirmed that they had been to the second floor bathroom.

It is a mind-boggling mystery, don’t you think?

 

Then I thought that a person had been to the second-floor bathroom. He wasn’t one of the family, and that if we’d left the poop unflushed, it would’ve served him right to meet a bit of himself again. The contract said money for a paint job, not arrangement for a free and permanent unsinkable exhibit of the painter.

1Life.

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