Sometimes you need to just shit on the floor, amirite?

It’s recently come to my attention that there’s been a bit of university press about me. You see, I didn’t even know it was about me until yesterday. I had heard people talking about it on my floor in Wallach, but I thought it was just a classic joke about Barnard students. It wasn’t until I read the article that I realized, Wait, somebody did actually poop on the floor of the Brooks 7th floor bathroom. And then, Wait, was it me? 

I really didn’t mean for it to come to this. I’m just a dude who wants to enjoy his college experience, okay? It’s been a good time so far. NSOP was lit, the workload has been chill, and I’ve decided to start the frat rushing process. I’ve only gotten one fake ID stolen so far, and that was just because I borrowed it from my friend who usually has the same trim as me, except I got a fade recently. So that’s my bad, Josh. 

I’m not exactly sure what to say here. Some girl on my floor writes for Bwog and told me I should send my story in, so I thought why not. Nobody’ll figure out who I am, and if they do I honestly don’t really care. It’s kind of sick if you ask me. 

I’m not even sure when this happened, either. I know it was between one and three weeks ago. Ever since I started doing coke, time’s gotten a bit muddy for me. I go out clubbing a few times a week and by the time I come back I’m usually missing either an article of clothing or an important government-issued piece of identification. Most times, I don’t remember much of the night. I like it best that way—I like the mystery, the surprise of finding out how hot the girl I hooked up with was. 

On this specific occasion, all I remember is waking up in a phone booth, missing a shoe. I had never seen a phone booth before. I remember the lights were dim, the floor was carpeted, the wall composed of what I think was wood. I stumbled up and out the first exit door I saw, descending down a staircase and out the next door. The hallway looked identical, except this one had higher ceilings and no phone booth. Where was I? Did I noclip into the Backrooms? I ran through the next door I saw, finding myself in an empty bathroom. All of a sudden, I was overcome with a massive intestinal feeling—I had to drop a turd. The next thing I remember was the absence of that feeling. After that, my next memory was waking up in my bedroom, my singular shoe having left a mark on my already-stained pillow. 

So you can understand why I didn’t think it was me. I don’t remember actively taking a shit in the bathroom of a Barnard dorm. But I can’t get that eerie memory of rectal weightlessness out of my mind. Who else could it have been? Who else would it have been? I told this story to a few of my boys, who told me they felt like it made a lot of sense for me to have shat on the floor. Guys, what? 

So yeah, at this point, I’m not completely sure if I’m the one who actually took the shit on the floor. But I feel like I might’ve. And I kinda want to hook up with the girl on my floor who writes for this website, so I thought why not send this story in. Yeah. But come on dudes, if you know if someone else was the shitter, please confess. I’m already stressing the fuck out as is. Fuck, did I really do it? 

My Shit via Author