Had to stop a run there. Severe gastric distress around the back of Lordship Rec. Stood in the dark for 20 minutes in the bushes looking like I was trying to solicit a blow job off a White Willow. Waiting. For my arsehole to explode.
Thankfully it didn’t happen.
I can’t bring myself to shit outdoors. Human evolution has brought us past that point a long time ago. When I’m stranded over a mile from home the panic is indescribable and when I’m caught between dropping my pants and squeezing with my eyes closed or trying to make it home I don’t know what to do.
I tend to just stand there. And look lost.
I can picture myself making it to a pub to use their toilets but being denied access by an angry barmaid. Just as I manage to order a Coke I shit myself and get thrown out by the bouncer.
And old brown legs is back with tears in his eyes…
I can divide my life into two parts. The first part was everything before the time I shit myself in May.
The after is now and the worry that I’m gonna repeat it and end up behind bars.
I cannot trust a fart these days. I won’t trust a fart.
I just wish I could go back to being a fearless runner. The days where I knew I was in control of my bodily functions. When I could laugh off a turbulent belly.
Now I’m fragile. The worst part is my mind. It races ahead into the future and dreams up disasters where the Met catch me shitting into a bin and tear me a second arse with their truncheons. Or the one where I’m shitting in a hedge and a stray dog starts headbutting me in the arse like Duncan Ferguson and Zinedine Zidane rolled into one snarling shit-hound on crack.
I need help.