Have you ever seen someone so beautiful, so sculptured by the Gods themselves in an act of hubris and possibly overripe kombucha, that you think that the mere act of you thinking about being with them will somehow put you in some sort of angelical blooper reel where everyone in the afterlife will look at it and laugh at your foolishness, like a voyeuristic TikTok? 

Now, imagine that person squatting in front of a porcelain toilet, underwear to their knees, after a night of eating tzatziki and beans straight from the bowl with a spoon, beads of sweat running down their forehead as what can only be described as a runny, cafe-au-lait style of explosive diarrhea makes a Jackson Pollock exhibit in their bathroom. Not so hot now, isn't it? 

It doesn't matter how hot, or famous, or rich, poor, skinny, fat, or what color you are. At some point of the day, our bellies will do the rumbly-wumbly thing, indicating that it is time to squat in front of a decorated hole in the floor, with some water, and just push filth out. Taking a massive dump is the great equalizer, and with that in mind, aren't we all the same? 

Go talk to that hottie – I assure you that you at least have one thing in common. 

All I want to get at is that bad boys, for all the mystery and hotness inherit to their bad boy-ness, have, at some point of the day, sit in the Thunder Throne and smite the heathens, so to speak, and that's one of the pleasures of my day. I get to sit in a quiet place, not being afraid to bump into any plot, and play Plant V Zombies until I want. 

But guess what? I think I'm allergic to nut milk. Never had one! Bad boys aren't calories-conscious. I only get food into my gullet and deal with it later. So ever since my lunch break with Hayden, I've felt my stomach do the dangerous rumbly-wumbly, the one you know it was gonna take half a day off to deal with. 

I honestly thought I could deal with it. It's all in the brain, really. But the meat puppet craves release, and it couldn't have picked up a worse moment for it. 

Ten minutes before the bell rings, I'm in my vent, where I'm sure some poor cleaning lady is wondering why two badgers decided to climb in to have a duel to the death for all she knows, and with a strong desire to take a crap. Yes, this is the crap chapter, deal with it. 

Do I risk leaving the comfort of my vent to venture out the vent to an adventure of venting vicissitudes, ventricular, or do I risk going during the break, making my guts do the lateral Macarena to stop the leak? 

Either way, I'm screwed. 

My body, being the rebellious bad boy it is, decides for me with a well-paced fart, making sure that not only my position is blown, but also making me question if I blew a hole through my cotton whities. 

Checkmate, body. 

I have to risk it. Better plotted that soiled, I always say just know. 

I kick over the vent, being very careful to exit it. Can't afford to be a show-off. Besides the guy with a million scarves and three overcoats that I'm starting to believe is just two pugs taped together, nobody's in the classroom yet. That gives me both relief and fear. Mostly because it means that they're outside. Waiting. 

I brave myself, making sure to give a silent prayer to Saint John Bosco, Patron Saint of Bad Boys, and step outside. 

And I immediately bump into a girl. Short, black hair, purple eyes, papers on the floor, the whole shebang. I believe that if the government would invest in some binder awareness, then teens wouldn't be carrying so many loose papers around. Better than their war on drugs, I say.

"My periwinkle eyes cross the threshold of his mysterious spectacles," whispers the girl, standing there like a deer about to be rolled over. "Oh, such a chance encounter, to meet a man of dream's desire on such a mundane occasion, such a mundane chance."

You know what's worse than a TAGB? A Totally Mysterious Girl/Boy. They narrate in purple prose, as if life was an Edgar Allan Poe poem. Always following you around all gloomy and stuff. She even got me monologuing. 

I just look at her in the eyes, which is kinda weird to make a point of when you have dark glasses on, and said to her, as slowly and patiently as possible, "I gotta take a mondo shit," which is the only acceptable thing to say when you bump into an edge queen. 

With that, I stood up, leaving her behind with her poor organizational skills. Not only cuz I do have to take a mondo dump, but because I wasn't going to fall into her trap. Which, sadly, I already seem to have fallen in. 

"Such a dick ugh," I hear someone monologue, which, for the use of onomatopoeia, I believe to be Laila, as I powerwalk with my buttcheeks clenched towards the bathroom. Doesn't that word make you uncomfortable? Buttcheek? It's the part between the t and the c. Icky. 

"Yeah, I know," says another voice, equally annoying, which can only belong to Leeland. "I just want him to choke me behind the taco truck God."

"I heard he beat Hayden Wilson in a fistfight yesterday," I heard somebody else say. 

"Kya? I heard he was BEATEN UwU."

Chimanthera: lol I heard he once smoked a pack of cigarettes and it gave the pack cancer. Such a hot boy my god.

What even is this depraved place? I came here to learn, goddammit, not to be the purveyor of somebody else's sick fetishes and social contractualism. Kant didn't die for this. 

As I see the gateway to my solace, the pooper-palace of shame — which is already shameful enough, being a person who poops at school — the universe decides to throw a wrench in my plans of relief by making me bump yet again with my new best friend, Hayden. And lemme tell ya, we are just too big to go inside at the same time. 

"Oh," I say, trying to muster at least some amount of politeness that he deserves, "morning, Hayden. Why don't you go in first? I insist. Fast. Please."

Before he can say something edgewise, which I sure hope is something about how urgently he has to pee, what I can only describe as a mistake of bleached-blond hair grabs him by the arm and smashes against him. What lies behind that hair is a woman, furiously masticating a piece of gum, while looking as bored and checked out as a war veteran watching a Christopher Nolan film. 

The girl, as any blonde woman in the arms of a jock, was wearing a cheerleader uniform, with two more girls equally checked out behind her. 

"Babe, who is this loser?" she says, completely monotone, dragging the consonants. "What a loser. He looks like a loser."

"He is a loser," says one of the girls behind her. 

"Yeah, take the L, for loser, you loser," said the other. 

The cheerleader looks behind her and yells, "Shut the ef up, Stacey. Nobody likes you."

"Yeah, eat crap, Stacey," says the first crony. 

Bad boy rules require me to stay in one place as the plot progresses, and boy am I about to progress the plot if things don't move along. 

"Anyways, who is this poser clown?" says the cheerleader.

"He is a poser clown."

"Yeah! Poser clown, poser clown! Tell me a joke!" 

"Seriously, Stacey, I'm about to punt you," said the Cheerleader. "Anyway, kick his ass, babe. Just for me. Stab him in the pancreas."

Unbeknownst to me, which I suppose is ubeknown, since I'm telling you, a small crowd has gathered around us, again, and just like last time, they began to chant. 

"Fight, fight, fight!"

Hayden stays in place, surely monologuing, looking around like a girl who just bumped into a bad boy, which, in a way, we both are, and shakes the girl off his arm. 

"Hey, uh, babe?" he says, grabbing my arm, "I gotta take a mondo dump. Ayden? Care to join me?" 

Well, this took a turn to the weird. Can't say I've ever had a double dump before. 

I don't even have time to say anything as we disappear inside the bathroom, with the mob outside still chanting at us. That's gonna be a real mood killer.