Shit Shy

By Dana Corbo '25

You’ve been sitting in the library for two hours now and something heinous is brewing in your large intestine. She’s furious and looking to start some shit, if you know what I mean. The walk back to your dorm is at least 15 minutes, it’s freezing, your paper’s due tonight, and you’re only 2 pages in and you haven’t even touched your atrocity of a bibliography yet. Looks like you have no choice but to seek refuge in the Firestone B level women’s restroom. I mean, who even goes to the middle level, right? What kind of pussy stops at the second flight of stairs, like make a fucking decision, right? Are you going up or down? Right? Fuck. Stop rationalizing. An odious rumble reminds you that you are animal first, anxious fool second. You walk slowly and casually down to the bathrooms (don’t worry, no one can tell you’re clenching). You open the door - hallelujah, sweet mother of Jesus, it’s empty. You’ve gotten arrogant at this point. You enter the stall and prepare your paradise, gently setting toilet paper down on the seat and maybe even saying a prayer. You sit down and begin to summon the storm. But, wait - no, it can’t be - the bathroom door is opening. What do you do? I mean, this is a bathroom for fuck’s sake. You can’t have people thinking you’re actually using it for its intended purpose and that you, like the rest of humankind, experience natural bodily processes. Obviously. Suddenly, inspiration strikes as God himself floats down and kisses your forehead. You know exactly what to do: stay absolutely still. Everyone knows that if you don’t move or make any noise, you no longer actually exist. The girl that walked in enters the next stall. Shit, you were hoping she would only stay for a cursory glance in the mirror. Naïve. Ok, she’s only peeing, she’ll be gone soon and you haven’t moved a muscle, so you’re completely invisible. Definitely in the clear. You hear the creak of the stall and the rush of the sink. She’s washing her hands - that’s good, she’ll be gone soon. Water has been turned off and she’s getting a paper towel. This statue act is really doing the trick. You give yourself a pat on the back for being a fucking genius. Wait, she’s not gone yet. Dammit, she’s doing the cursory mirror glance, isn’t she? She’s just standing there, maybe she’s texting someone. Whatever happened to common goddamn decency? Can’t she tell you have business to attend to? My god, should you just abandon the act now? But this dance has gone on for too long and there’s no way she hasn’t figured out exactly what you’re doing. Maybe just pretend you were just hitting a juul or something. People still do that, right? Silently and shamefully, in the most remote corner of an academic building? Ugh, that’s so degenerate. This will require a lengthy backstory: someone forced it into your mouth at a party and you’ve been addicted ever since. Yes, perfectly tragic - maybe she’ll even shed a tear. With new conviction, you finally decide to artfully jostle the toilet paper dispenser and flush the empty toilet, ready to deliver your perfectly crafted speech. You hastily open the door and assume battle stance, surveying the bathroom. Target located: she’s fixing her hair. She makes eye contact and does the pursed-lip-white-people-smile. You do the same. Good, perfectly civil. Unfortunately, your confidence is draining rapidly. You decide to abandon your heart-wrenching cover story. Instead, you awkwardly wash your hands and dry them, making sure to move slowly, just in case she decides to leave any time in the next 30 seconds. She doesn’t bite - tragic. Standing there, you find yourself at a crucial junction. - The deed has not been done and she still hasn’t left. And you know what? You’re tired! You’re pissed! You need to take a fucking shit! That’s it - you’re gonna go ahead, look her dead in the eye and say, “You asked for this.” You’re gonna harness the pride of all the beings borne of this earth. You’re gonna walk right back into that stall, drop your pants, and release your human waste with all the auditory and olfactory fanfare your powerful womanly body requires. Feminism, motherfucker. ... You walk back to your desk, defeated, holding the weighty metaphor of your cowardice in your organs. You’ll try again in 15 minutes. DC '25