By: Andrew Dahl

On the eve of her wedding, Brenda Gross shit her pants in an upstate CVS—the latest in a medium-long list of ignominies. She had postponed her bachelorette party to the night before the rehearsal dinner, and they all had made a late-night visit to an arepa truck that—it was now clear—had lower than desirable sanitary standards. She put the Pedialyte and Imodium down on the counter and exhaled slowly. Her sweatpants were light grey and her t-shirt was short—she had no recourse.

       “Can I help you?” asked the pubescent cashier.

       “I don’t think so, Todd. I really don’t think so.”

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