And I don’t actually eat that much food- my output is definitely higher that my input. I’m no mathematician but SURELY that doesn’t add up. Maybe I’m about to get thin. Chronic pooping is better than bulimia, I suppose.
The host family I lived with this past week physically walked me into the toilet at their house when I arrived Saturday and pointed to the loo. “Only pee-pee,” I was told, and I presumed that because it was an organic toilet that essentially I was being told that any (AHEM!) “lady products” must be safely gotten rid of in the bin. Meaning that poop was fair game. I mean, look at all the shit they spread on country fields- it’s totally organic, right?
So Internet, I won’t lie to you. All week, even though my roommate Judith told me not to, I pooped in the organic toilet. Three times a day. And sometimes, those tigers were so big I got splashback. I just didn’t care.
And then on Friday morning I went to do my morning pee and noticed, in my bleary-eyed 7.15 a.m. sleepy state, that the toilet water was a bit higher than usual. A bit darker than usual. A bit smellier than was usual. But I wasn’t about to walk the three flights of stairs to the other family bathroom. No siree.
When I turned to flush, the water didn’t disappear. It got higher in the toilet bowl, and higher, and higher, and then it hit the rim. The toilet made a lurching noise like it was slurping spaghetti and then it all stopped. The water didn’t drain. I could see various parts of my deposits in the water. My shit was coming back to haunt me. I think it winked at me.
What was I supposed to do? It was entirely obvious that I had breached the laws of the organic toilet, and that I had allowed my bowels to prevail over any other sensibility I might have. How as THAT conversation about to go? “Hi, I don’t suppose you’ve a plunger have you? I’m a sick bitch and have blocked your bog with my enormous shite.”
Actually. Yeah. That is sort of how the conversation went.
When I got back from school on Friday night, my host mum explained that I’d have to use the other bathroom from now on. I took a look at the situation I’d left eight hours earlier. It looked like this:
I’m BEYOND mortified. Judith thinks it is hilarious but honestly? My Italian host family, the family who have hosted English tutors in their home and opened up their kitchen and smoking terrace and hearts for the past five years will just remember me as the chubby English girl THAT BROKE THEIR TOILET WITH HER SHITE.
My parents will be so proud.