The Inner Monologue Of A Girl Who’s Trying To Poop At Work


Imagine coming into work like it’s just another ordinary day. The kitchen smells like garbage and the coffee is less than desirable, but at least you’re getting paid. Once you get to your desk, settle in, read a few articles online, and wait for the caffeine to kick in, you get that awful, painful pressure centralized in your lower abdominal region. Yes, dear readers, it’s time to take a crap. Usually, this subject is a little taboo, but I think it’s time we all agreed that shitting at work stinks. Some people take holding back the flood gates very seriously and wait in pain until they can go home to relieve themselves. I, for one, am not that crazy. In fact, I have developed some methods to dodge potential intruders while I’m doing the doo. Here’s a little look into the mind of a very regular bathroom crusader.

As I hurriedly leave my desk and casually power walk in the direction of the nearest bathroom, I think to myself, “Thank God it’s still early. I hope the bathroom down the hall is still clear. I pulled the pin out of the grenade, and this shit’s about to blow up some plumbing–in every sense of the expression. My bowels are under fucking attack.” After what feels like the longest 15 second walk of my life, I’ve finally arrived at the bathroom. “All the doors are open? Check. No feet under the stalls? Check. Praise the Lord baby Jesus, and forgive me for the trespasses I’m about make against this bathroom stall.” But any fellow toilet tackler knows that you can’t just pop a squat without making the perfect nest. “Why can’t my job be in a fancy building where all the toilets have nifty seat protectors like they do at the nice airports? This isn’t the fucking slums. I don’t want someone else’s butt germs infecting my pristine bottom. And this toilet paper, like, what the ACTUAL fuck? I’d like at least two-ply sheets for my beautiful buttocks. I’m using a whole damn tree just to build my seat guard, let alone wipe my ass. You can forget squatting. Those people must have Jen Selter’s ass after lunging for the plunge. I already put in enough time at the gym. Pooping should be a time for rest, relaxation, and rejuvenation.”

After I’ve finally prepared my seat for the flight, it’s time for takeoff. Three, two, one: “Ah, this might actually be the highlight of my day. Pooping sucks, but when it’s finally out of there, everything is so much better–kind of like butt sex. I have to remember to tweet that when I get back to my desk.” A strong smell creeps up into my nasal passages. I think, “What the hell did I eat? Why is my crap so awful smelling? Maybe I’m lactose intolerant. Aunt Cindy is allergic to gluten. Maybe that’s it. I need to see a doctor or go Paleo or something. Wait. What was that? Is that the sound of heels, or are they European, hipster, male shoes? I can never tell the difference.” The bathroom door creaks open and loud, clicking heels enter the stall next to mine. “Dammit, I can see her shoes. That means she can see my shoes. She knows who I am. Oh, dear God, please don’t let her smell my shit. Flush! JUST FLUSH! Abandon shit!”

I make every possible noise with the toilet paper dispenser and the tin sanitary napkin container, then I flush to try and hide any mid-poop plopping sounds. So embarrassing. Now starts my journey to the next bathroom. “Okay, so I can’t just go back to the office. I’m practically clenching my butt cheeks together to keep from bursting. Maybe I’ll go to the bathroom by the kitchen and swing by for some coffee after, which will probably make me have to shit again, but I can’t just go back empty-handed. Everyone will know I was doing the doo.” As I’m trying to sprint/walk without assuming the look of “struggling with bowels,” OF COURSE some chatty Cathy has to stop me in the hallway. “Oh, your kids this. Your husband that. Just stop talking, lady. Can’t you see I have more serious matters in my hands (and colon)?”

Finally, I reach my destination to get some real business done. “Now I know where they’re hiding the good toilet paper! I think I just found my new spot. Wow, it’s quiet in here. I just wish I could be alone like this all day. Bathroom time is me time–not that every other second of my day isn’t already all about me. Maybe I’ll just sit here a while longer and pretend I’m not at this God forsaken place.” This process continues daily at approximately the same time, you know, because dietary health and stuff. AKA I have the liquor shits from failing to abandon my college-level drinking habits. Oops.

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