Today was the day I
shit myself.
After an hour in the car with two screaming
kids, my wife and I were both on edge. As we walked into the house, kids still wailing, my wife turns to me - with
rage in her eyes - and berates me for not having done the dishes. Having regained some
control of my facilities, I figured I could either
lunge at my loving wife, rip out her
tongue and nail it to the wall; or go somewhere else to
calm down. As I am trying to be a good
father and
husband I chose the latter. So I walked out the front door and headed north on foot.
Now I live in the south of
Tampa, and my walk took me through some of the city's most
luxurious neighborhoods. Although I was filled primarily with
self-hate, I found myself
overcome with desire for a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, my two daughters playing hide and seek in a huge,
immaculate backyard.
I walked through these neighborhoods to my
church. My goal was to sit for as long as possible in the presence of
God to try and sort my
life out. But no-one was there, and all the doors were locked.
As I turned around to walk home, I slowly started to realize I really, really had to go to the
bathroom. My
breakfast had consisted of two bowls of cereal and a large serving of
Dr. Pepper. However I was a good ten minutes' walk from home, or any
public toilet. And the neighborhood I was in did not lend itself to strangers inviting one in to go
potty.
So it happened. A large,
steaming bowel movement began to fill up my boxer shorts, and slowly began to drip down the back of my legs as I walked. Here and there little
chunks fell to the ground as well.
Luckily the streets were
deserted. I passed a few cars and
pedestrians, but no-one noticed. As I walked past these enormous houses I became aware of a perverse, primitive impulse: to scoop out a big hunk of
feces from my shorts and
fling a bit into each driveway to mark my path.
Tomorrow it's supposed to get
cold.