Thunder Road

I’m at the library frantically whipping out another brick of analytic gold for my honours seminar 9000 word bundle-o-joie (“Who’s Your Dada And What Does Ze Do?: Re\Visiting Proto-Matriarchy and Materialism in Early Modernist Can(n)ons”) and have been holding in my precious canary-yellow fluids for over 74 minutes because (I thought wrongly that) I was on the brink of an academic breakthrough. We’ve all been there, amirite ladiez??

Finally, the pressure became too much to bear (Critical Intervention!). I proceeded to the little boy’s room and made a beeline for the urinal. Then that classic scenario ensued (you know where I’m going with this one, gentlemen). The one where you unzip and realize you may have made a slight miscalculation. A visit to the stall may have been warranted. Oops, I retained it again.

I looked around. No one in sight. I could totally make it to the stall and no one would think I was a freak. I grabbed at the door. Locked and occupied (gasp) by the world’s stealthiest shitfactory on legs. Excretion foiled! You win this time, constipation.

In the end, I opted to let out a semi-audible (and unfortunately, only semi-satisfying) and semi-moist fart simultaneously with my golden stream and made (tentative) plans to return in 3 hours when I’ve further developed my thesis and brought in some heavyweight backup.

Sweet relief! Only one question remains: What would my dear fairweather friend Daddy McDefecation think about all this?

(The answer’s obvious: he’d purse his bee-stung lips disapprovingly and silently reproach me for my gaseous indiscretion. Ay papi!)

All my luv,

Judith

P.S. As my aural companions Antony & The Johnsons are prone to saying, “for today I’m a boy”.

P.P.S. Would “Touching You, Touching Me: Canvasses, Text(ure)s, Genres, HerstoriCities” be a more workable title? Gosh, this is tuff stuff!