Defecation Diaries

"Hey Joe!" yelled Fred, from the stall across the hall,
"Check Twitter! Jon posted a picture of his poop, and it looks great and all--"
"HEY!" interjected Jon, from the stall next to Joe's,
"Follow the rules! No talking about the poop log while on the toilet! You know how this goes!"
"But dude!" gushed Joe, "That poop! It looks perfect--round, thick, practically flawless!
You must feel so proud! But... That smell... it makes me nauseous..."
And with a sudden clatter and shifting of a lock, Joe had flown the coop.
"What a wimp!" exclaimed an irritated Jon. "So much for our group poop!"
Nothing but a prolonged silence greeted his exasperated remark,
Until Fred, glowing with pride, bellowed, "MINE LOOKS LIKE A GREAT WHITE SHARK!"


      First of all, I genuinely hope everyone reading this feels as uncomfortable as I did writing it.  And yes, I have indeed based this off of a true story.  As a camp counselor, I spend a week of my summer alongside many young children and very much enjoy watching them interact with each other. Sadly, the rather disturbing interactions that I describe in the poem take place among the high school- and college-aged male counselors, not the children.  Of course, in creating this literary masterpiece, I intended to make the reader feel as uncomfortable as possible.  To do so, I indirectly characterized all of the characters--Joe, Fred, and Jon--as enthusiastic and devoted to their mission to have a "group poop" and maintain a "poop log" on Twitter. Their enthusiasm toward such an objectively undesirable activity evokes pathos, arousing feelings of discomfort and discontent in those comparatively normal individuals who choose to entertain themselves at camp by, say, hiking or swimming, instead of hosting group defecation sessions in the boy's bathroom. Additionally, the eulogistic and admiring tone that Joe uses when describing Jon's picture highlights his fascination with the camp tradition that they have initiated and indicates a potentially unhealthy obsession with his defecation diaries. 

But Seriously, Use the Deodorant

Dear Victoria,
        First of all, you need to relax.  Calm down.  No need to panic.  Yes, in your futile but nonetheless valiant quest to organize your locker (which, by the way, smells like a dead rat, so please, for the sake of your locker buddy, do something about that), you have indeed stumbled upon a letter from your eighteen-year and fifteen-day-old counterpart.  And I have some information that you may find interesting.  So you better go sit down--I recommend going to the library, because Anna and Catherine are in the cafeteria right now, and they will inevitably steal this from you if they catch as much as a glimpse of it.  So go.  Alright, where shall we begin? Ah, yes. Hygiene. Seriously, Victoria, you do not smell much better than your locker.  I know how much fun you have rebelling against Mom and refusing to wear that nasty blueberry-hibiscus-scented Teen Spirit deodorant (and you will develop an allergic reaction to it anyway, so prepare yourself) but now would be a perfect time to start getting in the habit of using it.  I recommend Dove. It smells good, and in eighth grade that one cute guy you will meet at 4-H camp may or may not tell you smell nice. Anyway.  If I recall correctly, Ms. Heartz is your homeroom teacher, and you have no friends in your class.  Now, if we were anyone else, I would undoubtedly advise you to stop acting like such a little recluse and go make friends.  Fortunately, though, I know that you do make it through your fifth-grade year utterly unscathed despite this lack of friends.  So, if you can tolerate the awkward fifteen minutes of homeroom before Mr. Dole's class, no need to worry about acting like the social butterfly that you aren't. On that topic, let's have a discussion about the friends that you do have.  Fortunately or unfortunately, however you would like to look at it, those are the friends you're stuck with for the rest of your time here at Chagrin.  So you better learn to deal with them.  Luckily for you, Anna will eventually stop calling you Schmacums, although, for reasons that I absolutely cannot fathom, you will succumb to the urge to make both your email and your clubpenguin username "schmacums13." And it will come back to bite you.  So please do not do it.  Also, Catherine will stop stealing your lunch box every day, but please, for the love of God, go get a new one.  There's mold growing on the inside pocket and you know it. Your attachment to trivial material objects disgusts me.  Sadly, though, you will not outgrow that by the time you have reached eighteen.  So learn to live with it.  And, since, by the age of eighteen, we have not yet learned how to make our writing concise, I have rambled and am thus running out of room. So, a few parting words of wisdom: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

Sincerely,
Your better half

P.S. One more thing.  In eighth grade, on your way out of school, you will pass by the art room and see Ana Moran sitting in it, working on a project.  She will appear to be alone.  She isn't.  Mrs. Ford is standing at the sink, the one you can not see from the door.  So please resist the urge to barge in and start singing her a song.  Mrs. Ford will think you're a psychopathic loon.

P.P.S. I do not remember if you have read the Harry Potter books yet, but if you have not, I advise you to do so as soon as physically possible--partially because they will become your second-favorite series, and partially so you can understand the reference in the last line of my letter.

P.P.P.S.  Joke's on you! No one will ever compliment you on how you smell in eighth grade, especially not that one guy from camp.  He moves away anyway, and you will never hear from him again after your freshman year.  So do not get your hopes up.  But seriously, use the deodorant.

Time After Time

I admit it.  I have a problem.  A problem that undoubtedly stems from my inexplicable and somewhat frustrating tendency to get attached to inanimate objects.  A problem that manifested itself in the form of me sinking so low as to root through a garbage can in search of what I deem as the most precious, invaluable object to have ever graced my house.  Yes, I spent a good twenty minutes scrounging around in a mess of moldy food, dirty tissues, and coffee grounds in search of a clock.  Not just an ordinary clock, though.  Despite the fact that this clock has lived to see 23 years in our house (24 this April, actually) and the resultant scratches spattered across its face, this clock holds more value than gold.  It had dutifully rested on the mantle above our fireplace for as long as I can remember, not moving an inch until an unfortunate Christmas-related incident this year in which my inept and careless mother knocked it down while hanging up our stockings.  Upon inspection, the clock did not seem terribly damaged, so I carefully put it back in its proper place.  Later that evening, though, as I glanced habitually at my beloved clock, I noticed with horror that the clock still read 3:30 despite the fact that the sun had set two hours ago.  In a rush of panic, I grabbed the clock back off the mantle and examined it more closely.  The second hand.  It had fallen off.   The abrupt realization that the clock would never tick again like it had year after year, day after day, minute after minute, time after time prompted a flood of utter devastation to pulse through my veins. My mom, seeing the broken clock, indifferently jerked the clock from my desperate grasp and plopped it in the trash without a second thought.   As she left, I rushed over to the garbage and, in a fit of rage, retrieved my precious clock and stealthily snuck it up to my room, where it sits today between a broken radio and a dysfunctional lava lamp.

From the Water Pail to the Hay Bale

Every morning, I wake up to the metallic shrieking of System of a Down blasting out of my phone. My sister, whose room lies adjacent to mine, often complains when she, too, wakes up at 4:45 in the morning to the rather unpleasant sound of the heavy metal band singing (yelling, actually) nonsensical lyrics about undercover cops and Peter Piper. Unfortunately for her, I have yet to find any other motivating force to propel me from the confines of my cozy nest of warm blankets so early in the morning. Why, you may ask, do I wake up at this ungodly hour? To perform the rather extreme (and time-consuming) task of feeding and watering 53 pigeons and 3 ducks.  As I drag myself out of bed into the comparatively frigid air of my room, I wince at the thought of bracing myself against the harsh Ohio wind chill, which seems a billion times more unbearable before the sun makes its first hint of an appearance from behind the row of pine trees that encloses my yard. I make my way down two sets of stairs, shivering once again at the prospect of the extreme temperatures that await me beyond the sliding doors of my basement. As I approach the stationary tub in my basement, I grudgingly grab the first two water buckets and place them in the tub, filling them up one by one.  I have long since lost hope for the hose outside--the cold has rendered it frozen solid.  Naturally.  As I fill the seventh and final bucket full of water (that will surely freeze over within just a few hours of sitting outside) I tug on my barn hat, adorned with pieces of hay and probably pigeon poop, grab the two nearest full buckets, and, ignoring the little voice in my head that constantly reminds me of my insanity, begin the long and tedious trek to the pigeon loft.  In all of my eighteen years, I have experienced nothing more extreme than that walk.  That slow, somber, dreary, dark walk.  In the cold.  Carrying a full bucket of water in each hand.  Of course, my innate clumsiness magnifies by about 500 at five in the morning, and more often than not I spill more than half of the water out of each bucket onto myself before reaching my destination.  Then, upon reaching the barn, I turn back to make three more trips to lug the rest of the water buckets from the basement to the barn.  After about 15 minutes of walking back and forth through the snow, I allow myself to fall into a mindless routine.  Deliver each water bucket to its respective animal pen or loft. Stare into the water and ponder the meaning of life. Check Twitter to see if anyone has anything interesting to say at 5:30 in the morning (or, if by some miracle, the superintendent has called a snow day).  Attempt to start a conversation with my ducks.  Contemplate my sanity (or lack thereof).  Feed each animal.  Check to see if any baby pigeons hatched.  Consider walking back to the house.  Hear the howling wind outside and decide to perch myself on my favorite bale of hay in the duck pen for a while longer.  Remember the calculus homework that I forgot to do.  Panic.  Run inside.  Marvel at the extreme absurdity of my morning adventure.