Today was the day I shit myself.

After an hour in the car with two screaming kids, my wife and I were both on edge. As we walked into the house, kids still wailing, my wife turns to me - with rage in her eyes - and berates me for not having done the dishes. Having regained some control of my facilities, I figured I could either lunge at my loving wife, rip out her tongue and nail it to the wall; or go somewhere else to calm down. As I am trying to be a good father and husband I chose the latter. So I walked out the front door and headed north on foot.

Now I live in the south of Tampa, and my walk took me through some of the city's most luxurious neighborhoods. Although I was filled primarily with self-hate, I found myself overcome with desire for a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, my two daughters playing hide and seek in a huge, immaculate backyard.

I walked through these neighborhoods to my church. My goal was to sit for as long as possible in the presence of God to try and sort my life out. But no-one was there, and all the doors were locked.

As I turned around to walk home, I slowly started to realize I really, really had to go to the bathroom. My breakfast had consisted of two bowls of cereal and a large serving of Dr. Pepper. However I was a good ten minutes' walk from home, or any public toilet. And the neighborhood I was in did not lend itself to strangers inviting one in to go potty.

So it happened. A large, steaming bowel movement began to fill up my boxer shorts, and slowly began to drip down the back of my legs as I walked. Here and there little chunks fell to the ground as well.

Luckily the streets were deserted. I passed a few cars and pedestrians, but no-one noticed. As I walked past these enormous houses I became aware of a perverse, primitive impulse: to scoop out a big hunk of feces from my shorts and fling a bit into each driveway to mark my path.

Tomorrow it's supposed to get cold.