That is the most disgusting story I’ve ever read, but also the most interesting. There were a lot of moving parts in that one, a lot of intriguing aspects: from the supermarket pickup, to the referring to the bathroom as “the washroom,” and, oh yeah, the part where she carried around poop in a purse.
I guess we’ll start with the supermarket part. I never understood how pickups happened there. In fact, I never really understood how they happened anywhere. When I’m in public I just assume absolutely no one wants to be bothered and keep my head down. You’d have to threaten to blow up a building in order for me to speak to anyone, and even then it would be with great reluctance. I live life like an old asian lady: head down, mind my business. I start playing music in my headphones before I walk out the door to my building and don’t stop until I’m back safely inside, people actually take them out and say shit like, “Oh I see you’re getting some Fig Newtons? More of an Oreo guy myself. Anyway, want to come shit in my house tomorrow?” I’d rather die alone.
Speaking of minding my own business, shit on your own fucking time, honey. What is this “I’m a confident, self-assured woman so I’ll poop anywhere” nonsense? Get the fuck out of here. When you’re going on a first date you better get your shits out before the shower because if things are going well then you’ve got months before you can shit freely. Telling yourself that you’re comfortable doing it anywhere because you’re self-assured is like the people who tell you getting dumped on by a bird is good luck. No it’s not, you’re just disgusting and someone’s trying to make you feel better.
Also, what’s up with the washroom thing? Who the fuck is so proper that they consistently call the bathroom a “washroom,” yet such a savage that they think “I’ll just make myself a glove out of this paper that’s designed to disintegrate and go fishing for poop then store it in my purse like it’s some lip liner?” Those are completely conflicting ideologies.
If I’m the guy who this happened to and I’m reading this story, I may never talk to another girl again. Every purse I’d see for the rest of my life would just bring PTSD flashbacks and I’d be terrified the whole date. I’d be like a kid who needs to check under his bed for the Boogie Monster. “Hey, ya I’m really excited for our date. This is exciting. Quick thing, do you mind if I rifle through your belongings like a TSA agent, I just need to make sure you don’t have feces wrapped up in a ball in there.” Every time a woman took more than 3 minutes in the bathroom I’d automatically think, Great, she clogged the toilet again. It’s a legitimate life ruiner. I’d die alone rather than deal with the kind of stress from every woman. Fool me once with a poop purse, that’s on you. Fool me twice, that’s on me. Not worth the risk.