Interview Daze

Today, I’m diving right in.

There’s no warm-up.

There will be no prelude.

There will be an absolutely gorgeous piece of music though.

Because today I have a question that needs answering, and I’m hoping you can help me, or at the very least,


Today, I want to know, I need to know…

What’s the accepted limit to how much you can pee on yourself in the working environment?

Allow me to explain.

As discussed last time, I’m currently making the effort to attempt to accept the possibility that I have yet to reach the expiration date on whatever fraction of potential I have in me. That at this moment in time, I’m making a conscious decision to be more. More what, I’m not sure, I just know that I want “more” but in a way that doesn’t merely mean I’m piling on weight.

To continue this drive to become an “acceptable adult”, I have been chasing promotions at work. For too long I’ve been stuck in a repetitive rhythm and the majority of that tune is played at work. In order to grow, we must challenge ourselves, and often that means seeking those challenges out.

Fear not fetishists, I’ll get back to the watersports soon! I’m just working some shit out loud here, its all part of the process. As ever, please stick around.

My hours will increase at work, which means less time at home. I’m not ok with that. Woe, if things are ever going to change for me, I need to prove to myself that I can be away from my son and that this won’t suddenly make me a bad father. Having no real male influence in my life until I was 7 or so made a strange impact on me in that sense. No matter what I’m doing with my life, there is only one thought that never fades. The thought is not necessarily all-consuming, though never the less it is always present.

That I can’t fail him.

Maybe I put too much on myself in that regard. Not that I shouldn’t feel pressure, there’s a young and impressionable mind looking to me for guidance, and that is an impossible amount of pressure for anyone to always purposefully be able to respond to correctly. In the past few years, I have let that pressure overwhelm me. From the moment I knew he existed, I loved him.

Rather than let those emotions light a fire under me, I made it a prison of self-doubt with impeccable foundations.

There’s a second weight on my mind. Its been there for quite a while, just one I was better at drowning out or hiding in the cupboards. I don’t think I’m ready to to go there yet but I imagine I’ll be talking about it within the next month. What with this post being a discussion on soiling oneself, it would be tone deaf to go elsewhere.

What I’m trying to get across is that there are things that are bearing a toll on my mind, a toll that I’m not sure I can pay without getting the aforementioned promotion.

Set Sail for the Redundant-seas!

There was a hot minute last week where I thought I was being made redundant. I’m still in the call centre job I’ve mentioned here and to be fair, it’s going ok. I’m not half as busy as I was at this time of year in the prior years there, yet there’s been fuck all change or development in my time there. I’ve grown so accustomed to it, that I run on auto-pilot and can just toil away in my own head. Might sound nice, but frequent introspective seldom yields a healthy harvest.

Suddenly, on a Monday afternoon, they tell me to stop taking calls.


Not just me.

The whole building is to stop taking calls.

The excitement in the air was something else. Were some people afraid, sure, why wouldn’t they be? To lose your income with barely a moment’s notice is a terrifying reality to endure.

Not me though.

A solitary thought nestled into my head.

I was out.

I was free.

No more long bus rides, no more wearing masks and pretending I’m someone I’m not. No more fantasising about what exactly my life could be if that place no longer hung over me. Now, I understand full well that the second a large bill comes in, I’d immediately be shot back to reality, but oh, it was so nice to dream.

What a wonderful ten minutes that was.

Instead, what happened was that we were due for a changeover, with new positions coming into play. As much as I appreciated the time away from the phones, I felt cheated. All those dreams of betting on myself were once again just fantasies, now turned sour.

In the coming days, options were made available. Ways out of the drudgery of my current work life. To go for them would lead to an increase in hours, which sadly means less time at home. I debated it back and forth in my head and settled on the thought that chasing a (hopefully) better wage and weekends off would be the sort of step in the right direction I need in this year of me trying to improve and challenge myself.

As luck would have it, my interviews for the new roles were practically back to back. One on a Monday, the other on Tuesday.

My weekend was one lived anxiously.

I was investing too much into the idea that these jobs could shape my future,

That they were roles of vital consequence.

Nevertheless, I was a torment to live with that weekend. Restless, distracted and constantly just pacing back and forth. I needed to change what I was doing every five minutes like my brain was itching and I couldn’t figure out what could be done to scratch it.

Had I known at that weekend what I was going to do on Monday, I would have probably just called in sick.

Because on Monday,

Right in the middle of my working day,

I pissed onto myself. 

Soggy Mondays

What I said is key though, I didn’t piss myself per se, I merely pissed onto myself. Now, maybe that doesn’t matter at all, and to you, getting your own piss on yourself is just as bad, but as someone who did it, and I should stress it was done accidentallyI think that distinction

Means everything!

Not sure you want to trust my opinion, considering the ensuing piddle party that I hosted.

I guess, as a heads-up, this isn’t going to be a sexy story about how I got my fluids onto myself. However, if you do enjoy this particular tale in a more lascivious kind of way, please share! I haven’t been in the blogging game long enough to rebuke ideas. If further watersports is a way to get food on my table, then I’m not going to shut it down willy nilly.

Did ya catch that, I said “willy”!…. Please, stick around.

The interview is at 3pm. Even if you disregard the weekend, the interview hung over me for a solid 72 hours straight that Monday morning. Around 1pm, I head to the men’s room. I dunno how other fellas are, but even if I know that a number 2 won’t be involved during a trip to the restroom, sometimes I’ll just take a cubicle to, I dunno, catch my breath.

There I am, getting lost in my own head, when a sound snaps me out. Jesus Christ, somehow we are still talking about this. Anyhoo, when you pee in into the bowl, there’s a certain sound,

We all know it.

Poops go “sploosh” or maybe even “ploop”

Peeing into the water goes “splish”

Peeing onto the bowl goes, hmm… “pepepepepepepepe”

I had to take a few urinary breaks in order to settle on that, so please, if there are any “pepepepepepepe” haters, let’s keep the peace. Now that we all agree, you can imagine my alarm when after a few seconds, I realised there was no “pepepepepepepe” sound.


Not so much as a single “pe” was being made.

It was more of a, hmm… sputter, I suppose?


You know the sound. The din our crotch water makes when it comes into contact with our clothes. Again, I feel an important distinction is to be made here. If you get a chance, I encourage you to pee on your clothes, and then in turn, pee on someone else’s.




By the time I heard it, it was too late. Far too late. In my day-dreaming, I had not properly aimed myself, and so crotch water snuck out between the seat and the bowl.

A dramatisation of the treacherous Number 1’s escape.

The Killzone was my undies, with a blast radius extending to (sorta impressed if I’m honest) my left buttock pocket. I immediately realigned my member for course correction and swiped some toilet roll to start patting things down, in a way similar to how one uses a blanket to put out a fire.

I dried it up as best as I could, the pants were a newly purchased black pair, so it was dark enough to hide the damp stain, and luckily my sweater could be hung over the waist, so I left it hang loose, to be safe.

I was embarrassed,

And instantly concerned that people could know.

Ya see, this isn’t the first time, nor the second, I’ve had an incident like this.

A History of Defecation

We go back now to 1995

I am Seven years old.

My mother has recently moved in with a man, a very kind and gentle soul who I have the privilege of knowing. Together, they are very much so into the GAA, a range of sports created here in Ireland. I mean, they always were, but now they have someone to watch Gaelic sports with.

Trying to encourage a similar passion in me, I was dragged along.

This… Was not appreciated.

Regardless, I try to give it a go. Sports, I mean. I made quick friends with a neighbour and we went to the local pitch in the estate to play some gaelic football.

This would be my first mistake. 

Things wind down, and I need to pee. Even back then, we had stranger danger so I walked away from my friend to tinkle (I’m 7 at the time, 7 years old “tinkle”) but stayed in sight.

That would be my second mistake. 

I get started. Just to note, I didn’t really pull my pants down. I held myself one-handed and used two digits of my hand to keep my elastic waist pants at bay.

That would be my third mistake. 

You can probably guess what happens next.

I want to tell you that my friend kicks a ball at me. Or that a seagull thinks my periwinkle is a piece of bread and we scramble.

Alas, that is not the case. To my eternal horror, I simply

Stop holding onto my waistband.

Causing it to retract, locking my phallus in place,

And aiming it upwards…

Yep. It came from below, but you get the picture.

And I panic, as anyone would. What does panic mean in this instance?

Panic: To flail your arms uselessly while you continue to piss onto your own face.

Make no mistake,

This was no dribble.

This was not the end of the stream here.

I’m talking Full Tank. 

I don’t remember what I told my friend if I even mention it at all. I mean he’d have to have noticed that my face is suddenly soaked, but at the same time, we’re kids, maybe he was just thick.

What happened in the aftermath will remain a mystery to me, and in hindsight, I daresay that’s for the best.

Story Number Two (How apt)

This one is a doozy. It will forever be one of those memories that just shows up announced and punishes me all over again.

The Year is 2000

I am 12 Years Old

And I am gorging myself on cookies…

I was initially trying to be less “Gimmicky” with this one, but you gotta cling to what you love.

I am staying at a friends house, one who I am lucky enough to be friends with to this day. As you grow older, people fall out of touch, due to college, moving, work or maybe one of ye grew bored of the other and didn’t have the heart to say.

Somehow, this fella remains one of my best friends.

When I say “somehow”, I mean I don’t understand how he kept in touch, especially after today’s sordid tale.

We’re staying up late watching movies, playing games and all the while,

Eating cookies.

A whole bag’s worth of them harbours in my stomach,

If I am anything at that moment, I am a boy made wholly of chocolate, nuts and biscuity goodness.

We head to bed, as boys will eventually do. My friend’s room was a renovated attic space, which would be on the third floor, and the nearest toilet was on the second floor, right outside his parents’ room. On the way to bed, I tried to go to the toilet. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, but I was…


There was a large spider resting near the toilet’s handle you see. Now, pee I could do, because then I could keep my eye on him. But to poop? To sit on the toilet and turn my back to this black as night multi-limbed monstrosity? Not on your fucking life!

So, to bed I went, bladder empty, with a rectum that was anything but(t).

I sleep on the floor, I believe he had a futon? Maybe it was a blow-up bed. I’m not sure that detail is all that important.

Now, another thing you should know; I was terrified of the dark. My fear of spiders came from my cousins, who would throw spiders on top of me in my younger years. Fearing the dark is hardly a unique trait in a wee lad, but it was something that would stick with me till I was 18 or so. I could wager the root cause of it, but again, tone deaf.

Somehow, with a belly full of shit, I sleep.

Until I don’t.

Until my body shakes me angrily awake and says

Its time to go.

“Go where?” I ask, barely conscious.

My asshole quivers.

“Not go,” my anus says.

Its time to “go”

And right there, I can feel it peeking out. In this room, the lamp is on but the room below is dark.

The hall will be the same. As will the lavatory.

And what of the spider? 

I call my friend, trying to wake him. Hoping that he’ll accompany me down the steps.

He doesn’t wake.

I call before my body informs me that my time is up.

The Apoopcalypse draws rear

And the un-ending literal shitstorm begins. Imagine this happening you at 12 years old. Puberty is on the way, and the only thing you’ve developed so far is a colossal gague for discomfort and guilt.

So I begin to shit.

Right in the bed.

I shit.

Entering hysteria, I run down the stairs, and with every step,

I shit. 

As I run through the room below, containing my friends’ siblings,

I shit

As I race into the hallway and recognise there is no time to search for a light switch for the bathroom,

I shit.

Finally, on the toilet,

I shit such an extent that I need to flush over and over for fear of clogging. 

Thankfully (if it is indeed possible to be thankful at a time like this) it’s not dissimilar to cookie dough. Its soft, warm, and easily dissolvable. That parts important. My lower torso, my waist, both legs, both feet, are draped in shit. Having cried and pooped and cried some more, I did what inevitably had to be done.

 I woke his parents.

Now as a parent, I can’t comprehend what they must have thought, what they must still think of me to this day. Our folks remain friends and are frequent drinking acquaintances. If I were to guess, I would assume they still bring up how they had to clean my stool.

It was everywhere.

They had to scrub throughout the night and all the children had to sleep downstairs to get away from the smell. Not me though, possibly for fear of repeats, I was left to sleep in a scrubbed, but still shit-ridden room.

On the following day, I went home early. My friend called me that evening.

He had news.

His parents, who had been up almost all night trying to purge their home of filth, had missed some of my “spillage” and his youngest brother stepped in my waste,


Yep, sans boot.

With that detour over, let us return to the relative present, where I’m trying to conceal my urinary stains in a toilet cubicle before I attend an interview.

Back to reality

In reality, it was only a drop or two, there wasn’t enough in my underwear to cause discomfort after the pat down, but that’s the point of my question right up at the top.

What’s the accepted limit to how much you can pee on yourself in the working environment?

It’s tricky, isn’t it?

At the end of the day, if we were to run a survey, I think the answer would be clear as (my) piss.

None” you’d all say, a bunch of holier than thou, prissy piss-less bastards.

But is that a fair answer?

As a man, its been a long accepted that no matter how long you shake for after relieving yourself, some urinal residue is going to escape yer Johnson, or whatever you call it, once you have it all tucked away. This is a scientific fact.

Sidenote: Leopold is a good name to replace Johnson. Sounds way more distinguished.

With that in mind, let us try to determine an answer to this question that has dogged philosophers since man could whizz.

How much is “too much”?

(A): A tea spoons worth?

(B): A pints?

(C): A full barrel?

(D): The equivalent to yer standard mid walk gob? Y’know, that thick spit, like when you’re an out of shape lummock who had to cross the road quickly because a car was coming, and you thought it was gonna stop, so you start crossing, and now find yerself on the road and that car ain’t slowing down so you gotta run for two seconds AND OH GOD THE HEARTBURN!?

This is where my head was at coming into the interview on that fateful day.

Could they smell it?

Did they know?

The First Interview

This interview was my first in over 3 years.

It went about as well as one could imagine.

It’s one thing to talk to friends, another thing to talk with customers, but it’s a whole other beast to convince someone why they need you.

Yes, I am good at the things.

Here is how I am good at the things.

I realise my answers are vague and open-ended, years of customer service does that to you.

It’s tough to assess yourself in these situations.

Am I talking too much.

Ok cool, they are both taking loads of notes.

Too many notes?

Wow, they are really filling those boxes up with my gibberish, I bet I’m aceing this!

Hang on, are they writing about the piss?

Can they smell it?

Can I?

If I’m arrogant, and I’m sure I am, I mean we all are on some level, I never gained the type of arrogance that instils one with confidence.

I never learned how to “sell” myself to people.

In those situations, I just try to be honest and avoid hyperbole, whereas I’d soon be reminded that regardless of quality, what people are looking for, is a hype man.

Interview Number Two

On Tuesday,

I don’t soil myself.

Just figure I should get that out of the way.

This time, I have a vague idea of the questions that will be asked, so I prepared some answers.

Yes, I’m really good at the things.

Here is how I am really good at the things.

My answers are vague and open-ended, years of customer service does that to you, which I have been in for years, please let me out… Please!?

That one, I felt that one went well. I made a joke or two to attempt to appear comfortable, there was a healthy amount of back and forth, and I thought that since we had an extended chat by most interview standards, it was a good sign of things to come.

That of the two,

if I had any,

That was the one.

An hour later, I begin to review myself. I tried to remain reasonable about the whole thing.

You felt good about it immediately after, so just get it out of your head. You did great, man.

The next day, I found flaws in everything I said, from my mannerisms to garb to convincing myself that I made the interviewer uncomfortable.

Do you think they bought that you are good at the things?

Should you have  cried or gone all reality TV and explained what this would mean to you?

Fuck, they did, didn’t they? They smelt the piss and then gave a heads up to the other interviewer.

Over the next week, I extrapolated upon anything that could be taken as adverse. This cross-examination, this post-mortem would last from one Tuesday to the following week.


And let me tell you,

It was a hell of a week.

I actually became sick from the stress of not knowing. I’m hocking up flecks of blood as I type this, possibly from a throat infection. One that I’m treating with Cola flavoured slushies and rum.

I have to say, my prescribed dosage of however the fuck much I want is going down a treat.

I told myself that not knowing was worse than hearing a no.

In a way, that’s true.

That not knowing is worse.

That the possibility of anything,

Be it good or bad,

Can be too much for a busy or anxious mind.


I can confirm that hearing No,

On both accounts,

Hurt all the same… 



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