It’s 82 degrees, and sweat drips down your face.

You’re at a carnival, indulging in America’s cheapest form of therapy — eating your feelings. One funnel cake led to two, a gyro, and an Italian sausage later, your feelings are suppressed but your stomach is stuffed.

Unfortunately, the truth of life is waiting to humble you to your balls — no crime goes unpunished. It’s at this very moment where your stomach betrays you.

You feel a low rumble in your belly and the sick pangs of someone who needs of a restroom — fast. Pressure climbs and causes you to lean over.

Your eyes scan the crowd for a restroom, but when you see it, your heart sinks. They have restrooms, but they’re anything but restful. You eye down 12 muddy port-a-potties just waiting for the unlucky bastards who have to empty their load.

You curse your luck, the fair, and every poor decision that led you to this moment. It’s time to embrace your American right of passage, the port-a-potty.

You gingerly walk towards the port-a-john, ass clenched, hating every person here. With each step, your hate grows like a wildfire, consuming the world. “Look at these idiots; why can’t they go home!” And ignore the fact that you’re just like them — helpless.

As you get closer, the smell hits you. It makes a farm smell refreshing like cow shit was flowers. And as you approach the line, all you see is red locks. Twelve people, paying their penance. You curse your luck and hate these people even more.

After 3 minutes, a lady shuffles out of a port-a-john, and you try to avoid eye contact because no one wants to see the shame of what they’ve done.

With a stifled breath, you unlock the door and reluctantly enter the makeshift chamber of horrors, bracing yourself for what lies within.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. It’s where all the wallows of war come from. Its sharp, sour scent bites your nose and causes you to gag. You have to take a look at the source, and when you stare down at the blue abyss, you see a mud mountain nestled on faded white toilet paper as it rots for eternity.

You do a 360 look at your surroundings. Scribbled dicks, in Sharpie, left by a tortured artist for the world to see. You think about running somewhere far, far away, but it’s too late. You have to go. You take a look at your throne.

Dried yellow piss cakes the seat with open arms, and you hate the uncontrollable bastards who painted that canvas with piss. You feel yourself unfastening your belt and lowering your pants — you’re going to have to squat.

You curse yourself one last time as your body begins to release.

But oh no — what’s that pain? You haven’t worked out in years, and that burning sensation coming from your thighs starts to spread up your back. The heat inside the port-a-potty is intoxicating, and like a flower without water, you feel like wilting, but you must carry on.

It’s a battle of willpower now, fighting against both the physical discomfort and the overwhelming stench assaulting your senses. You grit your teeth and try to focus, but the heat and the smell seem to conspire against you, threatening to overwhelm your resolve.

With each passing moment, the discomfort intensifies, spreading like lightning through your body. Your muscles ache, protesting against the awkward position and the strain of holding yourself up. Beads of sweat form on your forehead, mingling with the already present droplets, creating a salty sheen on your skin.

You close your eyes, trying to block out the reality of your situation, but there’s no escaping it — the only way out is to get through. You feel as though you’re trapped in a sauna, the air thick with the stench of decay, human waste, and regret.

But still, you persevere. You grit your teeth and push through the discomfort, determined to see this ordeal through to the end. You refuse to let a mere port-a-potty defeat you; you’ve battled more formidable, stinky foes — you’ve shared an apartment laundry room.

Finally, mercifully, it’s over. You take a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you straighten up. You may be battered and bruised, but the hard part is over now. Only the paperwork remains.

You look to your left and your right — it’s nowhere to be found. Some sick fuck threw it in the toilet.

You start to panic. Fuck, fuck this fairground.

After some back-and-forth about using your sock, you decide against it — you can’t sit down. So, steely-eyed, you pull your pants up, fasten your belt, and kick open the door. And what you see is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life enduring your shame. And now, she’ll forever associate you with the stink of the port-a-potty.

Who knew coming of age could be so unforgettable?

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