They say it’s going to get easier.
When the shit hits the fan, you have two options.
The first is to duck and cover. Maybe if you curl up into a tight ball, the spatter will miss you completely. Or maybe it will just splash on your back, and you can play it off as mud or something. This? Oh no, this isn’t shit. I was walking down the road and you know how it was raining earlier, well, there you go. A bus ran by and the tires sprayed mud from the street all over me and I managed to turn my back just in time. But they will smell it on you and they will know you aren’t telling the truth.
Or, you can stand tall, eyes wide open, staring at the fan. When the spray comes, all wet, fluid, stingy droplets and strands – you can own it. Then, when they ask what happened, you can hold yourself erect, feet fixed firmly and face smeared with brown. This is my shit, you will declare, I squeezed it out into that bucket over there, and I threw it at that fan. This will make you seem narcissistic, reckless, insane even. But at least you will have been honest, with others and yourself.
They say it’s going to get easier. They are liars.
Because, in the end, you’re still getting plastered with defecate, and you’ve still got to answer to it, and you still have to clean it up.