I have always been a bit of a master at not peeing.
The origins of my particular talent lie, I think, within my high school days, a bildungsroman of ureic fortitude. My high school – feculent, dilapidated, filled with drug dealers and vagabonds and scores of teenagers so devoid of vigour and care that we could have doubled as a coma ward. Ceiling tiles regularly leaked litres of aged rainwater onto the floors; whole window panes would be thrown into the courtyard and replaced with wedges of cardboard for months at a time. Of the various school apparatus that had fallen into disrepair, the bathrooms were always the worst.
The bathrooms: acrid, fetid pustules with such dense bioform growth and new bacteria that they could technically be classified as wetlands. Whenever I walked by a bathroom the ambient stench was so powerful that my eyes began to water and my teeth developed cavities. The pages on my books fused together, students’ hair turned white, and car tires would deflate. There were no stall doors and every urinal was constantly caked in feces. When they weren’t designated hot boxes for impromptu circles of red-eyed wastoids, they were assumed to be full of various other illegal activities, from prostitution to thievery to orphan smuggling to the exchange of blood diamonds. People entered the bathrooms and just never returned, sucked into sewagey hell dimensions beyond our mortal comprehension.
I remember standing upon the threshold one day as a freshman and deciding, quite simply, that I would hold it. And held it I did. For 4 years.