The only other option she can think of is a colostomy. But the prospect of dragging around a bag of her own urine and poop is even more repugnant, more vile.
For the Poopa Donna, there is nothing quite as disdainful as taking a dump. She detests everything about it: the sounds, the stench, the ass-wiping, the total lack of control over her bodily functions. Just the sight of the unctuous fecal matter makes her want to heave-ho.
When the Poopa Donna sits down on the throne, she braces herself and grimaces as the floodgates open and release the contents of her bowels. Her cat peers at her through a palm frond. Oh, the humiliation. Within seconds, several turds hit the water in rapid succession, splashing water up into her butt crack. She cringes. For the next five minutes, she is a slave to her colon.
The odor rapidly diffuses into the tiny bathroom. "Ewwwwww."
The unmistakable smell of peanut butter permeates the air. She cannot believe someone as dainty and demure as she can produce a doo-doo this rank, this rotten. She makes a mental note to cut down on her daily consumption of peanut butter and cheese.
She sits there, holding onto the toilet seat, enduring the disgusting passage of something akin to a Lincoln log; a turd that looks like a truck driver's. "My God!" she exclaims, looking at the length and girth of it. For a tiny girl, she is amazed at the volume of poop her colon cranks out.
The Poopa Donna detests her colon. She is fixated on the notion that her colon is passive-aggressive, and that it takes great pleasure in offending her sensibilities with its crude evacuations. And there isn't a damn thing she can do except sit there, in the midst of her putrified-peanut-butter-poo- stench, and let nature run its poopy course.