To this day, I practice an unnatural avoidance of poo. This stems, I'm certain, from a trauma that occurred in high school. Oddly enough, it was in the middle of my fifth period ceramics class. I remember: my stomach gave an unearthly lurch, I asked the teacher for the hall pass, and I found the bathroom in my particular building locked so I had to go to the next building. That bathroom was mercifully deserted, and my need was fire. I ran into the very first stall and pulled down my pants.

Worthy of note was the fact that I was part of the dance production team -- which meant I was wearing tights and a leotard under my pants, a shirt over that, and a jacket over that. So I was hopping up and down, trying to free myself from my prison of garments so I could release the torrential flow of hot, molten liquid poo au jus. I had to remove my jacket, and then my button-down shirt, and then pull down my leotard and my tights before I could even reach my underpants. Time was against me as the torrent of magma prepared for an eruption. I finally yanked my pants down and sat, and not a moment too soon.

There was no time for pleasantries and the conveniences of an ass gasket. I just sat and Mt. Vesuvius spilled her bounty.

I was shaking and sweating. Wave after wave. Finally, as the lava slowed, I noticed a smell. But not of my own creation -- oddly enough, it was of vomit.

As I began to regain some semblance of normal consciousness, the smell of vomit overwhelmed me. I looked down between my legs to see if some freshman had ejaculated her lunch on the floor where my pants were pooled around my ankles: nothing. I looked to the left of the toilet: nothing. Right: nothing. Then I swiveled around. And nothing could prepare me for what I beheld: the entire back of the toilet AND the seat on which my naked ass sat was painted in vomit. Picasso in vomit.

I looked to the heavens for succor, but my God was pointing and laughing at me. Deliver me. PLEASE! Let me wake up to find myself safe in my bed and this is all a nightmare!

I was mortified. Beaten. Humiliated. Laid waste by, well, waste. I was seated in someone else's gut chunks. Does life get anymore fucked up than this?

I immediately reached for the toilet paper; one thin, wispy sheet came out. There were no giant rolls back then. No ass gaskets. No toilet paper.

Yes. Apparently life DOES, in fact, get more fucked up than this!

So I scooped up what dignity I thought still remained; and with my pants around my ankles, I went to the next stall. And there was nothing. No room or toilet paper in the inn. Jesus in the Manger didn't have it this fucking bad. The third stall proved bare, as well as the forth and fifth stall. So I went for the coarse sandpaper-textured brown paper towels that the L.A. Unified School District saw fit to provide us with, knowing that it would surely irritate the crap (excuse the pun) out of my sore assmeat -- only to be thwarted yet again!

Yes. Life is now at its apex of "fuckedupness," and my humanity at its nadir.

I was faced with a choice that no pubescent teenaged girl should ever be faced with: do I wipe the vomit from the ring of my ass, or do I wipe my dripping asshole?

I wanted to cry. I was helpless. Friendless. Alone in my wretchedness.

Weighing my choices, I wiped my asshole. I don't know why.

I gingerly pulled my clothes up. I still had to wait for the afternoon school bus.

I was bused from West Los Angeles to Van Nuys daily, and the ride took an hour on the 405 freeway. So for an hour I marinated in the vomit of a stranger. Then I had a twenty-minute walk home from the bus stop. I told no one. Not even my best friend Phyllis. I was so humiliated, demoralized, and stripped of vanity that I didn't even tell Phyllis -- and I told Phyllis EVERYTHING. I didn't even tell my mother. I got home, went straight to the bathroom, stripped, took the longest shower known to mankind, and bundled my clothes and shoved them in the washer on the hot cycle with half a box of detergent.

If you are acquainted with me personally, please don't take offense if I clean your toilet before using it. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. There are but a few scatological cognoscenti in this field. Me being one of them. Since this episode, I am sincere in my avoidance of things the body seeks to rid itself of -- especially poop. I almost barfed into my baby nephew's diaper when changing him. Mon Dieu! I had no idea that a little five-month-old baby on what is essentially a liquid diet could produce such butt sludge. After all, he was on formula (which is off-white in appearance) and rice cereal (which is also off-white), so WHERE THE FUCK DID THIS CHUNKY-PATINA GREEN PEANUT BUTTER POO COME FROM? I didn't feed him anything green. It wasn't like he ransacked my fridge whilst I slept and ate a plethora of collard greens! And MY GOD! The sheer volume astounded me. I have no children and this is on purpose.

People who have children always say, "Well it's not bad. It's like your own poop." HUH? WHAT? What on Earth makes you think I'm fond of my own? That's why they invented a wonderful product called toilet paper! I don't want to see it and I only check after wiping to make sure I'm clean. Then I use baby wipes for double protection against the dreaded skidmark. I don't look into the Kleenex after I blow and I don't look into the toilet after I'm done.

How can something that tastes so delectable come out so alien to the way it went in? The mystery still confounds me. The whole process. I only put it to paper to allay my fears and bewilderment. Ever see The Shawshank Redemption? Bet he suffers from post-traumatic stress, too.