The Carrot

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I am sitting inside a carrot.

Burnt orange walls surround me. Rough brush strokes of this rusty shade streak the back of the door. Paint is hastily dripped in visible spots on the concrete floor. The room is about three feet by three feet and empty, except for me. As I sit on my throne, I feel slightly claustrophobic. Oh, my throne is made of porcelain. I’m sitting on a toilet.

The carrot is a bathroom stall. And I grew up in it.

In sixth grade, I began performing at my community theater. It was the third day of theatre camp, and I had to tinkle. I sauntered into the bathroom and immediately connected the color to the disgusting vegetable. An eleven-year-old comedian, I burst out of the dressing room, ran to my friends, and hit them with the one-liner; “It’s like peeing inside of a carrot!” They roared with laughter, and I accepted my professed position as “Resident Funny Man”. For the next five years, I would repeat these words over and over. For comedy.

The years went by, my joke prevailed, and the carrot hosted new affairs. In seventh grade it was where I changed costumes before I was confident in my body; where, in eighth grade, I took my nervous pees before going onstage, still warming up to the idea of performing for...

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