The Shit

I had had to shit ever since I woke up. In the morning, in the evening; I’m not sure when I woke up, but whenever that was, I had to shit since then. But I couldn’t. Or more accurately, I could only if I knew I had enough time and sufficient physical calm in which to drop my pants and defecate thoroughly before the next barrage of missiles. Since Friday, I think since Friday, there had been dozens of missiles every few hours, each salvo announced by a horrible buzzing alert on my phone, followed by the baleful public siren signaling me—and I guess everyone else in the country, but as usual I’m just thinking of myself—that I had about five minutes (after the alert) or about one minute (after thesiren) to head to the shelter before the ballistic wrath of the Islamic Republic arrived in the sky and delivered its destructive weather.