I'll Cry If I Want To...

The whole past week at work has been nothing but poop. Literally. Diarreah, constipation, prune juice and laxitives. A girl can take only so much. The breaking point was not the snippety grandma who bossed me in a voice sweeter than suger as I placed her in bed for the thirteenth time. BEFORE LUNCH! I did not lose it as I wiped the elderly mans bum, applied cream, and looked down... at the brown stain ON MY ARM! And when I caught a brick shaped loaf halfway through clean up out the back door of a man my Dad's age, I held back thinking only briefly that this must be how a doctor feels during a vaginal birth. But when I lifted the leg of a paraplegic upon request of a coworker and "pulled the trigger" so to speak on a loose steamy pile that was large enough to have been accumulating there all week, I laughed. Loudly. It was oh so inappropriate but try as I might I could not stop. It felt good, and was apparently contagious because everyone in the room was rolling before long. As silence fell and we made our escape, I had nothing left to say. Except; "the next time you throw a poop party, don't invite me."