Pooping in the Bush: How I Miss Thee!

Somehow, I posted this in the wrong blog. Go figure... Maybe it's a sign...

City vs The Bush:

I hate taking a shit in a toilet. There is nothing sacred about sitting comfortably on a holy plastic seat playing on your iPhone while you wait for you bowls to do what ever it is was so god damn urgent minutes before. It’s all hype and no delivery. Like Spielberg film. It’s ridiculous. 

In the bush, there is no fucking around. You get the urge, you drop your pants, count to three, and you’re done. Nice and easy. Nice and clean. Two small wipes, and Robert’s your Mother’s Brother. 

On porcelain... no.... you you sit there, fart a couple times, take a sip of coffee, reload your Twitter feed for the ninth time in the last two and a half minutes and hope something comes out soon before you miss your bus and have to explain to your boss/teacher why you’re late. Thank the Virgin Mary for the caffeine because otherwise, you can just forget it. It’s like trying to push a cinder block through a donut without ruining the sprinkles. Completely futile. 

Those of you who were privileged enough to spend the first semester of CreComm in class two where made well aware on the first day of class of my uncomfortableness with pooping in a toilet. To you, this is nothing new.  

Those of you who’ve worked in the bush know exactly what I’m talking about. 

What is new and topical, is that I still haven’t adapted to the civilized world yet. But I’m trying... I really am.

By the by, this whole blog is about letting ago. It’s about relationships. Everything written prior is just putting shit (ya a pun) in perspective. It’s about coming to terms with the fact that the love you give, isn’t always reciprocated.  

He/She prefers the company of others over you.

It hurts. It really hurts. Worse, It doesn’t go away. 

I’ve been in this quasi denial since I rejoined civilization. I was high when I walked into the first day of CreComm. Not actually high, but I haven’t been in a room with that many people in years. Seriously. It’s a bit of a mind fuck. 

People are actually judging me on my moment, and not my history. I can’t say what I would normally say without running the risk of coming across as completely fucking nuts. For the first time in years, I had to start thinking about how others perceived me. 

But it didn’t matter, I didn’t care. Why would I? I had my toilet paper, and a good piece of blowdown, or a stump, that was always close by. It wasn’t going anywhere, why would it? History taught me it wouldn’t.

The blown down pine never judged you if you were having a bad day. You didn’t have to check the blowdown, and make sure someone repulsive hadn't used it right before you, and left diseases all over the place. It was there for you no matter what. You just snuggled  up to it, dropped your pants, and got your business over with. It was always there for you, and foolishly, I thought it always would. It put up with so much of my shit before, that I assumed it would even after I left without leaving any indication of the loving appreciation I had for it. 

I took those moments for granted. The stillness.. the serenity... the absolute assurance it gave, that I was beautiful, that I was truly one of God’s children so to speak. And what ever happened didn’t matter, because I thought that just being around and using it, and loving it, would be enough.

Doesn’t work that way in the bus station toilets of the “civilized world”. 

What can you do for me? Flowers, dinner, and a charming personality don’t cut it in the civilized world.  

Ladies,  chivalries not dead, it’s on the couch where you made it sleep. -- “Tomorrow Will Do” -- Hilltop Hoods.

Now I have to use the god damn paper toilet covers. It’s awkward, uncomfortable and ruins the experience. So I only poop at home. I just don’t have the heart yet. 

And every time I look at a bowl, no matter how unsullied it looks, it’s not the same. It can glisten so clear and clean, that I would eat my lunch off of it, drop my business, plug it, over flow it, and down right destroy it. But I can’t. It’s just not the same. 

Even when I find one that makes me feel comfortable--specifically I’m thinking of the one outside the TV studio-- it’s still not the same. I mean, I go to it when I have to... It’s better than the assembly line in the atrium, but it’s not the same. Where’s the magic?  

There isn’t any... It doesn’t exist.