I have a habit, which I insist is charming, of telling my partner about my bowel movements. Most often, my reports seem like  simple declarations of their character, before turning into a narrative and/or something symbolic or even thought-provoking (e.g., “It was reluctant, and therefore unsatisfying, because I felt guilty, like a frat boy coercing a girl who’d had too much to drink and wouldn’t be able to be sure later if the experience was consensual”). Occasionally, I explode the whole thing into something self-consciously epic dramas in which I leave the bathroom a different person than I was when I entered. Like the time when my shit was like fucking Avengers when Thanos snaps his fingers; it was such a reality-shattering game-changer that there was no way things would ever be the same, but at the same time I knew that next time things had to revert back to normal, to a degree, so that the stories could continue, and I couldn’t wait to find out what would happen. Or maybe it’s simple, like when my shit was like the weather in Georgia— unpleasant. Or when it’s kind of like me myself: inscrutable, hard to define. Or maybe I become nostalgic and compare it to the past and find the current scene lacking compared to the movements I romanticize from my youth, getting all dumb as hell, like the YouTube comment section under a video from some Alice In Chains song from the 90s saying how shit hasn’t been the same since like April of 1995 and I remember it and what in the world are these kids going to remember from today, fucking Imagine Dragons?, and I wish we could go back (not just me, but all of us, because these kids deserve better than this shit these days), and I imagine some comment on my shit from someone claiming to be fourteen and who validates me and says “I’m fifteen and I really think today’s shit is terrible and I wish I was alive in the 90s when shit was real and authentic.” Or maybe it’s one that I really had to force, just put all kinds of pressure on it, like Chinese parents putting all that pressure on their kids to succeed in a really narrow, proscribed way and it can easily destroy the child, and I wonder whether I really care about the shit or if it really is all about me. Or the long-anticipated follow-up to the Thanos finger-snap shit, and it starts off underwhelming and I’m thinking “What did I expect? How could it be anything but a letdown?” and I really start to wonder about myself and where I’m trying to try to find fulfillment and meaning in my world, but then out of nowhere shit starts touching down on the battlefield like toof toof toof toof fucking everything up and I’m ok wait a minute lil bitch you mighta done did something.

I try to be careful, as a general rule, never to say anything that might be taken as sincere bragging, but I’m actually kind of proud of my capacity for finding novel ways to describe my shits. It’s true. I’m not ashamed of this, and this whole post, to be honest, is evidence of that fact. I guess I’m posting this because I feel like it will make me seem like a really cool person who you want to know more about, someone who transforms the mundane and quotidian into something fresh and interesting. Holler at me, I’m out here and I’m really wit the shits.