I’m sitting at my desk, headphones blaring, pounding at the keyboard. It’s just another day in freakin’ paradise. Every email that hits my inbox is like a punch in the nuts, but I power through. The only thing that brings me joy is this extra strong cold brew. I take my last few sips and prepare for the unnecessary jitters I need to get through the workday.
I know it’s working because I feel my energy building, but there’s something else I feel: a sudden urge in my gut to control+alt+delete all its contents. I feel the gurgling in my stomach get stronger and stronger. I take my headphones off to see if anyone else can hear. No one says anything but I know they can hear the storm brewing. I’m sure if you were to look at my face at this very moment you would see pure panic. I appreciate my coworkers not pointing out my illness, but at the same time I’m wondering why no one has called 911 yet. I ignore the bubbling to finish one last email. Sure I’m a dedicated employee but I must be insane. I hit send and begin the race.
If you’ve read my past accounts in The Keys To Success: Masturbating at Work, then you’ll know that I can’t use the bathroom on my floor. Instead, I opt for the first floor bathrooms which no one ever really uses. Yeah, the first floor, that’s my safe space. Therein lies the problem, I’m on the third floor. Multiple flights of steps is a challenge I can’t handle right now.
Times running out so I run. Ok I don’t run, can’t draw attention to myself, so I power walk. Clenching, I hit the stairs. I keep telling myself one at a time, but I’m going so fast it feels like I’m flying. Maybe I can make it.
On the second flight down, tragedy hits. I get stuck behind a slow walker casually strolling down steps texting on her phone. I’d pass but there’s another group coming up the opposite direction. I’m tempted to shove her over the railing and out of the way, but this scenario may not justify murder. I pump the breaks and wait it out.
On the landing in between the next flight I pass her like Ricky Bobby on the last turn of the Talladega Speedway. See ya later Frenchy. With no one ahead of me I book it. We’re in the home stretch now. I can’t believe I might actually make it. As I approach the bathroom I start to let my guard down and prepare for take off.
I burst through the bathroom doors to see a defeating site: one bathroom stall is taken and the other says “Out of Order”. I can’t risk it, I’ve seen first hand that that toilet clogs easy. This is gonna be a multiple flusher so I need a working toilet. I clench up and make a dash for the second floor bathroom. It’s the busiest in the building, but it’ll do.
Power waddling my way to the second floor I realize another major problem: going down steps is much easier than having to climb them. At this point it feels like someone shook a whiteclaw and shoved it up my ass. The bubbles should be able to fly me into space, but would probably ruin my pants in the process. Hang tight butthole, we’re headed on a journey. Miraculously we arrive to the second floor bathroom, only to find both stalls taken.
Is this a terrorist attack?! What the fuck is happening?! You mean to tell me the whole building is shitting at once?!
No choice now. I have to head back to the third floor. I head to what is hopefully my final flight of steps. By this point, I’m sweating. I smile and wave at a group of coworkers as if it to say “nothing to see here”.
My vision starts going as I feel my body getting weak. With wobbly legs, I make it to the bathroom just in time. Luckily the handicap stall is open, and in my current state, I’m qualified. With not a second to spare, I pull my pants down and let loose what felt like an hours worth of agony.
I must have passed out because what happened over the next few minutes is hazy. Eventually I regain my strength, wipe, wash my hands and return to my desk. My coworkers see me smiling, but they don’t know it’s because I just won a race. The race against death.