There was no getting around my issue: I had to take a crap. Weeks of dining hall food had finally taken its toll and I was down for the count. Unfortunately, the community style bathrooms made doing your business a matter of national concern. As anyone with a vagina knows, we don’t want other people to hear us going to the bathroom. We are perfectly content sitting in the stall, shuffling our feet, waiting for the other girl to make the first move. As soon as we hear a tinkle hit the water it’s a race to the finish line—strange but true.

Anyway, it was 9am and I realized pretty fast that pooping wasn’t on my body’s agenda for the day. This led me to the worst decision of my freshman year.

I walked into my room, opened the drawer, and pulled out an unused stash of Ex-Lax. The back of the box read, “Will take effect in 6-8 hours,” so I did some quick math and decided that my 11:50 class was still in the game plan. I popped a few Ex-Lax and forgot about the issue, planning to continue my day with a few more bathroom breaks than usual.

Fate, however, was not on my side that day. I may have felt like crap, but I figured I didn’t have to look like it. So I threw on a mini-skirt and a cute top. Mistake number two. Don’t worry though, things get worse from here.

Class rolled around and I was forced to sit front and center, climbing over ten people to get to the open seat. Things progressed normally, professor lecturing, me writing, nothing really noteworthy.

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Then it happened.

I knew it was going to happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My clenched cheeks gave way, the chutes of hell opened, and suddenly I was sitting in a pile of my own crap.

A cloud of absolute stench immediately enveloped me. If you think dining hall grub smells bad freshly cooked, imagine it freshly steamed. Cleveland steamed. Now you have the image of a girl, in a mini-skirt, in the middle of class, in the middle of the row, who just shit herself.

For the next fifty grueling minutes I sat in a state of paranoia. What the hell just happened? I knew this had to be the lowlight of my life. The smell was undeniable and every movement I made felt like rubbing my bare ass against wet sand. The boy next to me was looking at the rather grungy looking fellow to his left, most likely praying that it was him.

I was trying to listen to the teacher when the boy next to me leaned over and said, “What the hell is that smell?” My heart started pounding, and I shifted awkwardly in my chair and looked his way, shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders. I tried to focus my attention on my shaking hand but my mind kept reverting back to my thong, which didn’t hold my shit as well as Depends might have.

I tried to think of an escape plan; I prayed my prudent old teacher would let class out early, but like always, she had to keep talking right until the end of class. I wanted to scream fire, or get up and scream “I JUST SHIT MYSELF!!” or call my friend and have her run through the class in a gorilla costume—anything to get out of there.

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But alas, I sat in my festering pile of doo until the room completely cleared out, waiting for the last idiot to finally ask the teacher questions about the class. It was much later than 1:40 when I got up out of the movie theater-style chair to see the damage. There was a lump smashed into the fabric of the seat, drippings down the side, and of course, the smell.

At around 1:45, it was finally over, relieving me for the second time that day. I went to the nearest bathroom only to realize that the damage done had left no hope for my skirt. I made the walk of shame back to my dorm room, with a telltale brown stain on my mini-skirt.

A word of advice to the wise: heed the warnings printed on medicine packages. Especially if they impact your ass in any way.

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