Woke up late and didn't have time to shit before an excruciatingly slow 8 mile division run. By the 5 mile point, my guts were rumbling. By the 6 mile point, my asshole was clenched so tight you could've stuck carbon in there and a diamond would've popped out. By the 7 mile point, I could feel the dam start to falter. By the 8 mile point, I knew it was coming out. We finished up the cool down and I sprinted to the burger king across the street. I stepped inside and could feel liquid shit smearing my underwear. There weren't too many people around, so I think I got away with no one smelling my shame, but I did get some odd looks from the workers. I dipped into the bathroom, and assessed the damage. My underwear and pt shorts were unsalvageable, but I was lucky and had my phone with me. I had to call my friend to bring me a change of clothes and baby wipes.

You'd think I'd learn my lesson, but I shit my pants again a couple months later during the Great Aloha Run. My fault for trusting a fart when I shouldn't have. 8 mile runs are cursed, and I've refused to run that distance since.