I walk into therapy today hellbent on not crying like i have the last few weeks (Steve and I are set to discontinue our meetings next week so he can get on with taking care of his health issues and I can get along to whatever it is I will do next), so I don’t. I tell him that am feeling more motivated, getting things done, not feeling like an impostor, not letting the women get me down. He says since I don’t have much to talk about, maybe we should just let today be our last session. I agree, holding back tears. It just sneaks up on you.
Then I come home. Down the highway and the parkway, through the detour, and into my driveway. Coming up the steps and along the walk that borders the front corner of the house, right before the dogleg, hidden by those unruly shrubs, I find a man-sized pile of shit: first the smell, then the flies, then the visual. It’s either from a man, a bear or a great dane, and I’m betting on a man. There aren’t that many bear sightings in my neighborhood, and why would a dog find its way to that hidden spot when in my experience they would rather do it in grass where they can scratch? Dogs don’t ever seem to have issues squatting and doing the deed right in front of god and the whole world.
The pile is right up close to the exterior wall of my house. Just where a man could’ve squatted and rested his back against the bricks, extending his legs out far enough so as not to get it on his trousers. I have shat in the outdoors before, just not on someone’s sidewalk.
So if it is a man, I think, why would they do it there? Perhaps they are homeless and have nowhere to do it. Perhaps it’s Leroy and he’s mad at me for some reason.
I guess it doesn’t really matter. It appears a man decided to come and shit on my sidewalk and now I have to fight the flies and the stench and go clean it up.
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