It’s Not About Me

It’s you.

The other day I was out for a run along my regular jogging path, the Balloona. With the pandemic on, the park bathrooms have been locked, so when I have to go, and I’m miles off from indoor plumbing, I have a spot off the path, out of sight, where I can piss (fortunately my #2’s come first thing in the morning after I get some caffeine in me, so I never need to leave scat in my wake). I’ve never seen a soul along here in all my runs along the path.

Right as I was wrapping up, a boy, in his late 20s I’d say, came up behind me, on a get-some-fresh-air stroll he told me. At first he apologized, and I told him that I was the one who should be sorry for peeing out there and unexpectedly being in the way of an otherwise ordinary walk for him.

He was so nice in continuing to graciously apologize, probably because I’m a girl, and girls often don’t like to be caught squatting. Me, being no ordinary girl, was solely amused by the whole affair, on a rather placid, uneventful morning. And then he offered me a hit from what looked like a meth or crack pipe.