I've never gotten through a poop without crying. It's just heartbreaking. To see a piece of you, a part of your body that you've held onto for so long, invested so much time and energy into, nurtured into being just be dropped out of a butt hole like that? I can think of nothing sadder. That's why I don't flush. That's why I don't use a toilet at all if I'm at home. I keep my poops in jars. Sometimes big jars, sometimes small jars, but every poop at home gets a jar of its own. I admire my poops, the pieces of me from a past so long ago. That's who I was, who I used to be, who I can be again if I just adhere to the diet, my ultimate diet. At night I walk though the poop closet and peer at my poops. I reminisce upon the day I pooped that poop and ruminate on the lessons learned. It's therapeutic. Still, whether it's pooping or staring at the poops of days gone, I cry.