My heart broke. He addressed me by my first name. No poop emoji and no half hearted demand for ‘floof’ pics (whatever that is). Before I could consider if he was worth the emotional turmoil, this long haired, flakey, roller blading mess of a 30 year old man from Eastbourne, I had posted a Facebook status. The status came about because so many of my friends knew and loved poop, loved the story of poop, the mystery of poop, the sheer joy that poop brought me, and I couldn’t decided who to reach out to first. But within minutes I had phone calls, texts and DMs of support.

Sorry for the emotional status, but just found out poop met someone else. RIP poop xoxo

6 weeks ago I started talking very abstractly to a guy I meet on tinder. He was constantly hungover. He could mostly only manage to text me a beer or poop emoji. The conversation, if you could call it that, slowly progressed into only poop emojis or the word ‘poop’. For a while we were going steady, one emoji per night for about a week. He lived in the next town over and was reluctant to meet face to face. My housemate and I were watching a lot of Catfish at this time, so it only added to the mystery.

For weeks I would brag that I had met the perfect guy, who gave me all I needed, a small amount of attention every night in the form of the emoji. Was this the modern day romeo and juliet? No. God no. For fuck sake. No. But I couldn’t quit it. I was in-love with the idea of poop, but probably not in-love with actual poop, the emoji poop or guy behind the poop.

After the poops slowly faded, and I complained to happily married* friends ‘I CAN’T EVEN GET A POOP BACK’, the man behind the poop finally spoke:

Hello, Hilary. Sorry to say but I sorta met someone so I haven’t been able to reply to you.