Of Shits Past

A day of meager sups. A day of licit slumber and troubled shits. I read Patton Oswald's book. I read some of Atlas Shrugged. I shit. I called my wife numerous times. I wondered about the possibilities passing me by. I thought of running around the track, running along the river, running above the city, running through the forest. I thought of the solid shits that follow exercise, about peaceful thoughts and simple foods. I thought of my dick, lying dormant between my legs and responding lethargically to differences in temperature. I cleaned the fish tank. I crushed the parasitic snails clinging to the glass. I ate 15 dumplings. I traced their journey into my stinking bowels. I did not chew them thoroughly. The smell in there must be horrid. I visited the small convenience store downstairs and talked with the proprietor about her bowel movements. I did not offer my own advice, opinions, or knowledge about feces. It would overwhelm her. I visited the security guard in his booth and asked him about hemorrhoids. He supplanted my existing store of knowledge on the subject. I imagined his constant post upon that hard stool would make a man learn much about his poor anus. I counted my pubic hairs. I watched videos of strangers fucking. I shit again into the cold, uncaring porcelain. I encountered that too familiar sensation of alienation while cringing at the odor of my feces and considering my position as receiving manager. I thought of all that refuse my leaders tell me about being a leader. I thought of them shitting, kneeling on the bowl ass puckered just like mine, just like all of us. What were my intentions in this life? What happened to the time when my actions had purpose and resonated deep in my chest, creating pleasant sensations throughout my entire body? What did it feel like to shit then?