I like eating at work. It's free, so why not? But at this particular place I work at seasonally I have made it a ritual whereby I eat after I report, then eat after I'm done.

I shouldn't do that anyway, seeing that I'm only really working there six hours. These are big breakfasts and lunches, I tell you, and it would've been hard for me to lose all the pounds if this was me after college, let alone now.

Depending on what I ate the night before, there are some instances where, after the first breakfast or lunch, I would have to take a dump. But where I work there are no toilets where I feel secure to take a dump. It's an old place, and the shitters are nasty and the bathrooms are cold. Also, it's incredibly busy where I work, and so I won't have the privacy I want to defecate in a public place.

For some reason, though, yesterday was worse. The last thing I ate the night before was salad and soup, although I did have a beer as well. And it wasn't as if I helped myself to thirds. Just seconds, and that was only for the first lunch (not breakfast in this case). I didn't feel a raging bowel movement coming on, nor did I begin to fart these killer farts, the farts that could peel paint off the walls, the farts where people at the area where I work would just have to stop everything and go, "Goddamn, who farted?!" I didn't feel that gas, so I avoided major shame.

But it was when I finally got home after a long day at work where my excretory system finally undid its belt and let come what may -- actually, I did the same thing. My shit was anticipating its freedom right when I drove up to my driveway, so I walked like I was having a cramp all the way to the door. I burst in, threw off my shoes, and ran up to the bathroom, where I proceeded to spend the next 30-45 minutes voiding. It was fucking unreal. I wasn't shitting a lot, just plop-plop-plop, but I felt massive pangs coming from my intestines, like it was pounding the walls in order to escape. And I so I sat and pushed my feces out of my body, again and again and again. It was shitting by a thousand cuts.

And when I thought I was done, I'd get up, only for my body to tell me to sit back down again. And I shat some more. Then I got up and out of the bathroom, only to go back in about five minutes later. Again, it felt more bark than bite; my body tells me to squeeze more and more, yet when I look down there ain't nothing there. But I sat and sat and sat till the pain was gone.

And I look at my stomach and I'm still fat. Really, if I had as much bathroom time as I did last night I should be able to fit into my high school jeans again.