text: I'm not sure there's anything worse than having to take a shit at work. It's not like I have issues pooping or anything, but the bathrooms are so disgusting. The men's room is a smorgasbord of tobacco spit in the corners of stalls, shit smears on inconceivable surfaces, wet toilet paper everywhere, loose--and often wet--pubes, bandits of tobacco everywhere, and unflushed toilets and urinals. It's lit like a back alley, and reeks of piss and shit regardless of the time of day. And on a hot day like today, it's worse. It's beyond stressful; it's stressful enough being in the office and dealing with anything and everyone, listening to entitled people bitch about current events, or the weather; everything that's beyond their control and out of their depth to even understand. There is nothing more annoying than being forced to listen to office banter. But unfortunately, I have to poop, which is worse than the banter. I lock my computer and head to the bathroom. The closest one to my cubicle only has three stalls and three urinals, and luckily nobody else is in here. The stink isn't overpowering, but I can tell I'm making a face over it. I open the first stall and the toilet is loaded with excess toilet paper and shit, all floating near the brim. Another common sight: clogged toilets from guys who have no regard for the correct amount of toilet paper they need. It doesn't even look used; it's like they pooped and then threw TP in to make it seem like they wiped. I gag a little from the sight and smell, and I close the stall. The second stall looks okay; there is only a small discoloration on the back of the seat where someone didn't scoot far enough forward, and a small piss puddle where the seat doesn't connect in the front, and both of those are easily fixable. I wad up about a foot of toilet paper, spit on the seat, and wipe around the rim, scrubbing at the shit color, which comes off. Then I take another foot of paper and wipe as good as I can on the front of the toilet. I also scan for loose pubes; nothing will make me gag to the point of puking faster than loose pubes on a toilet seat; but I see nothing so far, yet I remain vigilant. I am still making a face. I make one last loose blanket of toilet paper that covers the surface of the water so there's no splash; toilet water splashing on my ass is beyond gross. I drop my pants and sit down to start. It's not a gassy shit, which is nice; I always feel a little self conscious about sound in the bathroom. I always think that people outside in the office can hear everything even though I sit closer than most, and I've never heard anyone in here. The feeling is relieving; this is a pasta shit from the chicken farfalle I had the night before, with spinach and cheese in it. This makes for a solid turd and easy clean-up. The pressure drop in my body is almost euphoric. I start to think about how clean that toilet paper looked in the water in the first stall, like a pristine barrier in which the shit is contained. Why would someone do such a thing? I thought. I imagined my boss elegantly encircling his shit after clogging the toilet, as if to show off his accomplishment, and I get the silly idea he actually did do that in a territorial display of narcissism: Here's the real shit, fellas. Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair. I smile at this. I sit for another minute to relax and see if there is anything else brewing before deciding I'm good to go. The toilet paper at work is terrible. I wrap a couple layers of it around my hand, get a few good wipes, folding the paper so as not to be wasteful, and get up. But despite the relief, there is still that urge when I look at my turd to pick it up. Pasta shits are usually long and solid, which feels the best in my hands, and I like the analysis of it all. It's a need I can't always resist: picking up my shit, smelling it, analyzing, squishing it in my hands; its like a treasure hunt of past meals and prescription med capsules. It's an excitement I don't understand. But something about my bowel movements puts me in a state of awe at the work my body does without any real input from me; how it produces a pure pipe of food waste that leaves my body so smoothly; how the smell isn't great but I can't seem to turn away from it; it's the perfection in my waste that is the antithesis of my life as a whole. This useless shit; this perfect shit. Before I can really stop myself, I give in to the impulse. I pick up my pasta turd and squeeze it lightly, testing the durability. It breaks in half as I lift it out of the toilet, releasing some of the odor that smells familiar to me. I squeeze harder, and the shit pushes out of my hands and breaks off more, leaving me with a feeling of mud between my fingers, like a child playing in the rain. I smile. I push it around my hand some more, rubbing uneven parts between my fingers and thumb, trying to get a sense of what the mystery unevenness used to be, flattening chunks; my face gets hot and I get disgusted with the mess, and I toss what's left in the toilet and flush. I take some more toilet paper and wipe my hands as well as I can, even though nobody is in here; I could just leave the stall and use soap, but I want as much of it off as possible; I want it clean. Somewhat satisfied with my initial cleaning, I flush again, and I leave the stall to wash my hands in the sink. I can smell the shit on my hand, and I run the hot water over it, working it through my fingers while loading up my free hand with more soap than is necessary. My forehead is sweating, and my breathing is quickening, and one hand washes the other. I wash for a good minute, focusing on my nails and any potential residue, any hint of smell; the hand must get clean, and I feel hot as the hot water stings my hands, moving vigorously like worms in a bowl. After another round of soap and scrubbing, I smell my hand close to my face, and I feel comfortable that there's no trace of shit, and I relax. I wipe my hands dry on paper towels, and dab the sweat off my forehead, and go back to my cubicle. I can hear coworkers talking about football in a nearby cubicle as I sit down and unlock my computer; the fruitless debate from armchair quarterbacks on what their team should've done to win last week; what they should've done in the offseason; what they should be doing now; who's the best ever. They do anything to escape from working. The conversation feels so useless as I pull open my emails and worklist, wiping my fingers near my nose, trying to smell for any faint sign of residue; trying to make sure there's no trace of anything. I notice a small gnat walking across the white border on the email app on my screen, and I squish it gently and grimace, wipe my hand on my pants, and dive back into work.