For the Record . . .

I know that you pooped, Ms. Girl in the Stall Next to Me.

I heard the plop. You tried to synchronize it with my flushing the toilet, but you were too late. So go on and shamefully hide in that stall of yours until I exit the bathroom, but know that you're only making it more awkward for yourself. Because I'm going to take extra long washing my hands, fixing my hair, and doing anything I can to stay in the bathroom as long as possible. That way, you'll be trapped.

Trapped in that loathsome stall of yours, forced to think about how ridiculous it is that you can't own up to

your

own

poop.