I left you at the movies in the middle of our first date and I thought you should know why: I shit my pants. I don't know what I ate that did such a number on my digestive system, but I wasn't going to let it keep me from spending time with you. I was convinced it was just gas, and held it in check as long as I could. When you got up to use the restroom I wasted no time venting the pressure cooker in my bowels. That's when I realized to my horror that what I mistook for simple gas was a foul jet of blackest putrescence. I panicked. Grabbing my sweater, I tied it around my waist and walked briskly toward the exit, just as you were coming back in. I mumbled something about having to use the restroom as well, knowing full well I was lying. Yet another thing I regret. By the time I made it back to my place, you had texted me 10 times; initially with cute faux concerns when you believed I was still in the restroom, then sincere worry, and finally disappointment. I had no idea how to respond, so I did what I do best, which was nothing. Sorry.—Anonymous