As I lean over, pants still down, scrubbing remnants of my own filth from the toilet bowl with the weird, huge brush that sits in the corner, I think about how my body might decompose in the wild, one last giant shit as my bowels dump into the earth. Or how scavengers might spread everything around in increasing rings like these toilet stains. I remember lighting toys on fire in the woods as a child, breathing in the strange smell of rotting and pine and dry leaves and melting plastic. How do dead brain cells decompose, I wonder. Are these too many thoughts to have with my pants around my ankles, the smell of my own shit in my nostrils, I wonder. How do my exposed reproductive organs factor into all these thoughts about shit and death, I wonder. The image of that disfigured G.I. Joe, head caved in, fuming toxins.