I need to get something off my chest this morning.
I woke up on Tuesday morning having to go. Like really having to go. And I don't mean the easy kind of go either, you know, the kind that boys can do standing up. I mean Number Two. As in poop. Cursing the Indian burrito I'd so happily eaten the night before, I vaulted out of bed, tore open my bedroom door and sprinted down the hallway to find the bathroom locked and the shower running.
"Oh god," I whispered to myself.
I quickly turned around and headed for Sarah's room, home to the only other commode in our apartment, but her door, too, was closed.
I raced back to my bedroom, wildly scanning its contents for a vessel in which to do my business.
"Garbage can!" I said aloud. "Ew. Gross."
"Empty Safeway bag!" I suggested. "Get a grip, Corey."
"Old shoebox full of birthday cards! No! They might still have money in them."
Panicked, I bolted back through my bedroom door and ran down the hallway into the kitchen where I immediately spotted the compost pale, glistening like treasure next to the sink.
"So this is how it's gonna go down," I panted.
Without hesitation, I snatched up the compost pale and a roll of paper towel and rushed down the stairs to the back patio where the laundry shed lives. I muscled the shed door open with my shoulder and flipped on the light switch. Nothing happened. The lights were burned out.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
I thrust the pale down on the concrete floor, opened the lid and squatted. In the laundry shed. In the dark.
"So this is my life," I confided to the garden rake on my left.
As I tiptoed out of the laundry shed a few minutes later, hoping none of my roommates would catch me hosing out the compost bin, I couldn't help but congratulate myself on such quick thinking.
"It could have been worse," I told myself.
When I entered the house shortly after, the bathroom door swung open and Diogo walked out, whistling.
"Doing laundry?" he asked cheerfully.
"Something like that," I replied.