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A Poop Story With a Happy Ending.

With this medication, holding it is not an option. I hate using public restrooms, but when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to mummify the toilet seat and go. I finally get in the stall, lock it, TP the seat and lay my ass down when I hear the restroom door open.

I wait. Holding my breath for dear life. I think I hear pissing, but then I hear pacing. Not the sink or the dryers.

It’s got to be that new kid, the blond-haired coworker kid in the kitchen who also unloads truck. I saw him in the bathroom before, just leaning on the wall and the sink fiddling on his phone. Why won’t he just go away so I can poo?

I try to let out a little, but it sounds like an angry duck dry-heaving into an echo chamber. He doesn’t leave. Not even a giggle. Fine then, I let another go.

QUACK.

Now it’s got that angry goose sound. I can’t yell for him to leave so my butt does it for me.

QUACK. Q-Q-QUACK.

Translation: I’m not leaving before you. You are not seeing my face.

QUACK.

Just leave.

QUACK.

Finally, I hear the door close, and then let loose an angry riot of geese noises.

Freedom.

It’s the little things.

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