When I was small, I had a yellow car-shaped potty where I took all of my poos. One day mother left me there to do my thing and when she came back, I was ecstatically squeezing handfuls of my own poo. I don’t remember about this fun moment, but I bet I found my poo mesmerising. I must have thought: look at what I’ve just produced! Isn’t it amazing! The legend goes she stopped me just short from eating it.
Today I’m no longer mesmerised by my poo and I’m content with leaving it in the plastic bag. But, metaphorically speaking, there’s always some shit to handle, often because of some poor shit handling by someone else.
Handle with care. Or not.
I’ve got shit way deep into my nails. And I could have really done without it. No matter how much I wash, it stays there to bother me. The flow of water will eventually cleanse me. In the meantime, I look at my hands and curse the day I let myself be mesmerised by a turd.
PS: There’s a game which is called ‘handle the shit’, apparently. It consists of taking a bag of shit down the road, at night preferably, and then take out little pieces of shit and smearing them under people’s car door handles.
3 mesi di merda / 3 shit months 