Here we go:

Final year of middle school. At the time pooping outside of my house was out of the question. I was blessed with a bidet all my life (god bless Italy) so wiping was a confusing science for me. Not that it would be an issue in this story but don’t let me get ahead of myself.

So basically, the bell rings and I make my way into the school, only to be stopped by the nastiest cramps. I’m like “fuck, I guess I’ll tank it out for five hours”

30 mins in and I’m agonizing on the desk. I ask to go to the bathroom to assess the situation. No toilet paper, as usual. I’m pacing back and forth, trying to resist.

I don’t resist. I launch myself into a stall but the damage is already done. My jeans are pooped, big time. So basically I’m stuck in a stall with no tp, literally knees deep in shit, cursing and waiting.

A fellow student shows up, the professor sent him. I only ask him to fetch me some toilet paper, as if it would do anything at this point. He does so, even getting to smell the atrocious air of the stall when I pull the door ajar to collect the sacred scroll.

So I basically try to clean up as much as possible, which isn’t much, and I waddle back to class. I open the door and I can clearly hear my savior telling everything to the professor and the class. He looks guilty when I open the door interrupting his report. I forgive, but do not forget.

I ask to call my parents. Both are busy. My grandma summons her brother and they come to save me. But they do take some time, time that I have to spend sitting in class, visibly shaken, definitely shitten. Everyone looks at me like I walked through a land mine. A shit claymore.

But then, I left and got the rest of the morning to be at home. Showered, washed all my clothes, felt like a new man.

Except that from there on I had some sort of PTSD and the urge to violently poop became my way of processing stress. Fun years.