The Story of Pooping in NYC. Sorry.
I don’t know why I bothered to write this. Poop stories? Not really in fashion at 27 years of age. Nonetheless…
This story really strikes a cord with me. For one, every time I’m in NY, I always walk by that same Dallas BBQ in Chelsea, and once I even sat down in that exact Dunkin Donuts a block away for a coffee and, well, a donut.
This story also strikes a cord because when I was first coming down with Crohn’s, it all happened in NY. I never shat my pants, but there were indeed many heated moments where public washrooms seemed impossible to find, and the pain seemed like it would break my ass.
I’m a lady and all, but one time in Lima Peru I had no choice but to stop and shit spray during a niceish walk to the ocean. There were no Juicy Juice or Dunkins to save my sorry ass. It was two weeks into a year trip to South America and I was crouched behind a little bush that only hid my weird gringa hiking shoes.
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