The year was 2019. The day was yesterday.

The sun was shining, my crops were thriving and I was at my desk living my truest life… until I felt a rumble in my tum. Doomsday had unknowingly been thrust upon me.

“Oh shit,” I thought. “I need to shit.”

This is not what I want. This is not what I planned.

Quick initial sidebar: I have social anxiety at the best of times, so the thought of doing a public poo just about sends me into anaphylactic shock. I’ll literally go to any lengths to avoid defecating in a public environment, let alone in the sanctity of my own sacred working environment.

On that dreaded day, though, I’d exhausted all other options – I was going to have to take the plunge(r).

I shouldn’t have had that fucking large soy flat-white.

The situation was about to get a (w)hole lot worse, however, when I opened the bathroom door and realised, to my horror, that it was a full house.

I’d been hoping that I could get away with a solo performance but there was literally one spare cubicle quietly whispering my name, while the two others were in use.

One’s a treat, but poo’s a crowd.

It was in that moment that I realised I would not get to live my solo fantasy. I wouldn’t be reciting CherLloyd-By-Cher-Lloyd. I wouldn’t be taking a disgoostang shet in privacy. To paraphrase Demi Lovato, “this was real, this was me.” This was my chosen narrative, and I would have to face my fears head on.

Then came the next task: who starts? The room was filled with silence, and no one was game enough to be the first to toot. The white noise permeated the air and penetrated my booty hole. It was a Mexican standoff of sorts, and ya boi had stage fright.

What do I do in this scenario? Do I just say “fuck it” and courageously lead the pack, or do I wait until someone else starts before following suit?

“I’m going to wait it out,” I thought. “I’m going to beat them.” This was so much more than a stool or two. This was now a game of pride.

This game plan was a superb moment of triumph… for a solid 5 seconds, before I realised that doody had well and truly called.

I was stumped. As the stomach pains kicked into second gear and beads of sweat started to accumulate on my forehead, I looked up at the luminescent light and prayed for a sign.

And then it hit me: “FLUSH, BITCH, FLUSH.”

I immediately hulk-smashed the flush button, sending a wave of sound across the bathroom. Flushing the toilet pre-poo had subsequently lulled my competitors into a false sense of security and simultaneously soothed my social anxiety.

I now had approximately 10 sweet seconds to release before the sound would subside and my tomfoolery would be exposed.

This was it. This was my time. I could now shine, Jesus, shine. Holy shit.

After I flushed for a second time, I ran away from the cubicle faster than the speed of shite and thanked the high heavens that my anonymity was still intact.

Only about 15 minutes had passed before I returned back to my desk, slightly red-faced and hollow-bowelled, but it felt like an eternity. I guess this is what happens when you free yourself from the public-poo-ridden shackles of your fears.

I’ve grown a lot as a person since that fateful day. I’m proud that I was able to preserve my office credibility (until this article is published – #doitforthecontent). I’ve also learnt some invaluable life lessons:

A) Avoid public poos and large soy flat whites.
If not, B) Wait it out in the cubicle until the coast is clear.
If not, C) Flush in order to create some noise, scream and hope for the best.

This is information I will take to the grave.

And to the two comrades whose identities I’ll never know, I appreciate our time shared together – I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.

What a shitshow.