I hate pooping outside my home, and if forced to do it, my friend describes my bathroom habits as positively dainty.
I won’t drop a deuce unless my toilet comes with four secure walls and a latched door lock, and I can’t do cubicles unless the partitions go to the floor. It isn’t the cleanliness that bothers me — although, hard pass on gas stations and Starbucks — but I can’t stand the sounds. The splashes of water, the farts; I deny they come from me, and I abhor hearing them from others. I deny pooping at all.