Every so often, I have to hold a funeral for one of my delicious, beautiful poopies. Every time a poopy leaves my body, it feels like a fecal abortion because of how much I love my shit. I try to keep them inside me sometimes, but sooner or later they just have to come out. But once they're born, they never get up and grow into the wonderful poopy adults I know they could be. It makes me sad sometimes, knowing that my shit is never going to grow up and have a full life full of the poopy memories it ought to have.
My poopies are more than just the waste products of the foods I've eaten (which ironically enough are themselves just more shit). They're extensions of me, and a part of me that seems to die every time I squat and poop. I'd love to keep them with me forever, but I know it's just a part of the cycle of life. I weep a little bit, but then I take heart in knowing that all of the shits that came before are looking down on me from the great meadow in the sky.
Every time I make my offering to the god of meadow muffins, floaters and steamers (Moofus, I guess), I remember that I'm giving something back to the Earth.