The Outhouse

I don't shit where I eat, but I shit in the same house. 

In my perfect world, the toilet is in the same house as the kitchen.  I'm tired of travelling to the outhouse, past everyone's reassurances, past their disregard for the problem, their denial that what I have is an illness.  I'm tired of going so far out of my way to be frustrated just so nobody in the house has to deal with my stink.  The feeling only brings on shame, as though I don't have enough.  I have been shat on, it wasn't even my fault.  You would admonish me further by pointing me towards that cold shower.  Granted, I'll have to go to that place anyway before I can hope to enjoy the rest of my days, but wouldn't you at least say that what I deserve is a nice warm bath?  Don't I deserve it? After all of this toil, the constant heartbreak, the sides that continue to weaken under my ribs, wouldn't you say that a little bit of pampering for me would not be out of order or in surplus?  

I don't need directions to the outhouse, and I won't need directions back.