I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.

It’s not that I don’t trust you, I do. I mean, you’re a single toilet in an apartment shared by three dudes. I’m sure you’ve seen some shit- Pun begrudgingly intended. But every time I have tried to use you, I freeze up.

Like a popsicle in January.

Like my car that time I forgot to get the oil changed and the engine just stopped.

Like in fifth grade when Nikki Aguinaldo was supposed to perform a poem and instead stood there for 30 agonizing seconds and then ran outside to vomit.

I just can’t do it.

Or I couldn’t.

Until today.

Maybe it was the spicy fried chicken sandwich. Maybe it was the flu my boyfriend has likely given to me. Maybe it was just three days and my colon was like “Enough is enough, Devon.”

And I finally pooped.

For a brief, shining moment, Toilet, it was just you and me and that bathroom heater all midcentury Los Angeles buildings have. It was glorious.

We shared a beautiful moment, you and I. And that’s why, when my boyfriend knocked on the door seconds later, asking if he could come in and shower away his flu sweat, I couldn’t lie to him.

I thought about it.

I thought about saying I was shaving my legs. That I had a mystery menstruation that came out of nowhere. That I had put too much coconut oil on my hands and body post-shower and was ostensibly trapped in the bathroom, unable to open the door.

But to lie about what happened between us would ruin our beautiful moment and all the trust that we worked so hard to build over this past month-and-a-half.

“Babe, can I come in? I need to shower, I feel gross.”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be out in a second.”

“Oh wait, were you pooping?”

“…Yeah.”

“Cool.”

You helped me face my fears today, toilet. And no matter what happens, no matter how many Targets I poop in- You will always have a special place in my heart and my butt’s heart.

Thank you.