Post-lunch reading sessions.
I just started my second week of my first real job, and beyond all the things I expected with being vaulted into the upper-lower-class-white-grey-collar society, one of the most pervasive is my changed poop schedule.
From working 40 hours a week, balancing a Sunday restaurant shift and trying to eke my money’s worth out of a gym membership (I’m a little too svelte), I am gone a lot. And between all the coffee I drink, and my bizzarre and obsessive eating habits and my bizzarre and obsessive working-out habits, pooing away from the home is a necessity. Factor in me never really being home except directly before and after sleep, and additionally factor in my dashing regularity and I’m pooing in foreign territory so often that I almost consider not making a toilet-pater seat caddy each time.
Though crazy thoughts like that never last more than mere nanoseconds, same with crazy thoughts like using my hand instead of a the tip of my shoe to flush and / or lower the seat. But now, I am fully into and accepting of pooing in nearly anything that flushes. But I’ve also crafted an alarming Howard Hughesesque ritual that surrounds each of these trips, and they go, hand-in-trembling-hand throuhout each day.