The following blog my not be appropriate for children under 8, adults over 90, or anyone for whom straight talk about poo is taboo.
Poo is life. We inhale, we exhale; we eat, we poo.
Poo is. Poo happens.
For those of us that are new to Dakar, poo is everything, and everything is poo. The Inuit have 200 words for snow; we newbies are developing an expanding vocabulary for what has been, simply, poo.
I have self-adhering poo envy. I long for surface tension. But, then, I am a hopeless romantic.
I vacillate between pudding and cake batter. I can't be any more clear than that.
I got my hopes up last week that I was ascending the evolutionary poo ladder, from crocodile poo, to bird poo, to deer poo. Ah, but just as I was about to brag about the nuggetness of my poo, back I slid (sorry) into salmon poo.
We are reassured by the veterans that homeostasis will return, that our poo will return to normal.
I'm cautiously optimistic.
But I wonder: Might I go all year with reptile poo? Can that be a good thing?
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2 comments:
I love talking about poo too. Unfortunately my bowel movements don't warrant a blog entry.
mister spedding, i had diarea for my first month here
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