You’re a kid. Most things in the world are wonderful for you. But what is always getting you down? Poop. You don’t get it. It smells. It’s gross. It doesn’t make any sense. “Poop?” Yes, poop.
Dog poop: this still is a poop that is unlikable. It happens anywhere there is grass and typically can go unnoticed until it’s squishing in between your toes like lukewarm cookie dough that still needs a bit more mixing. You can feel the granulations of unprocessed matter on you. You scream. It’s poop.
It doesn’t get any better. Poop still persists. You will keep pooping for your entire life. Everything else will continue pooping. It can be frustrating, this poop. What is it? Why does it happen? Is there any way to make this butt mass any better? No. It is poop.
This is a bad word. “Poop” is a bad word to you. It’s not funny. Pooping—the act, the product, the idea—is frustrating. This is not something light and cuddly but dark and decidedly unwanted. Don’t talk about it. Take that poop away. I am a child: I do not care for poop.
The poop steals attention from you. It is bigger and it is more disturbing than anything you will accomplish. The source of the poop does not matter: if it is pooped, it is already more important than you. Poop is a force.
It doesn’t stop. This shit never ends.
The pain and the pleasure, the relief and the work from poop is always felt. Poop can be anywhere. It is arresting. It is inside you. You will never not be with poop. You will never not be full of poop.
So, why be mad at poop? Make your peace with it. Poop or be pooped. Accept that this is what you are: poop. You are poop and poop is you. It is a divisive offering to the world, the end and the beginning of all life. It is poop.
Rejoice. You have reconciled with the poop. You have found the joy in poop. Do not be mad at poop. It is a fact of our nature.