Congratulations on Retaining a Semblance of Dignity!

When you pull down your pants and pop a squat, your internal monologue will kick in and you'll whisper inside your own head: Yep, this is it.  This is the lowest point of my life.

You'll abandon that illusion about halfway through the shit, as the radial mass of the shit begins to force its way out of your sphincter just as a junkyard dog walking by stops to stare at you.  Not just at you, into you, through you, into your soul.  That dog will know every detail of the last six months, every blown job interview, every night spent on a friend's couch, every drunken rant aimed at no one in particular.

The dog's presence will suddenly make shitting incredibly difficult, interrupting your process and leaving you in mid-squat, shit only halfway out, suddenly extremely aware of the beating light of the sun and the sounds of traffic not so far away.  The dog will begin to advance towards you, tentatively, and you'll look around yourself for something, anything that you can transform into a privacy shield.

Your eyes will settle on a shower curtail just within reach, still attached to most of the frame that once hung it over a tub.  You'll slide the curtain so that it hangs as evenly as it can across the pole, then you'll hold it around yourself.  There won't be any sort of support structure for the curtain frame itself, so you'll have to hold it while you shit, but once it's in place the dog will stop staring at you and walk away.

As the rest of the shit tumbles out from your rectum you'll feel a sudden relief.  Not just the usual relief of a shit well pooped, but a deeper, more profound relief: you'll feel like, for the first time in weeks, you've recovered a scrap of the dignity you used to know before you moved to New Jersey.

Congratulations on Retaining a Semblance of Dignity!