It’s not every day a highly specialized composting toilet is purchased as a wedding gift. I mean, nothing says “this marriage is forever!” quite like a composting toilet. But alas, much like seeing undigested corn in my fecal containment area, I was confused by a lot of things in your marriage.

Please don’t blame yourself, we all played our part.

Your newlywed plans for a cliffside campsite and hostel for wayward mountain hippies were great! Having a high-end and comfortable, yet eco-friendly facility for defecation is definitely a real drawing point for people who normally just find a tree or dig a hole. You excitedly put me on the registry and, all too happy to oblige, your father ordered me in from Sweden!

But mistakes were made.

I think the first mistake, from my perspective, was you guys never fully embraced me. I was meant to be put indoors. But no. You insisted I would be perched on the edge of a mossy cliff. It was a beautiful spot, but I just wasn’t designed to be outside. I came with a quiet fan, thermostatically controlled heater, and a handy manual mixing control.

Was that it? Was it because of the manual-stir?

As a couple, you really seemed so enamoured by the bonding experience of regularly aerating the fecal mixture in my double capacity containment vessel, together. But your husband always did have a really weird obsession with poop.

That’s coming from a composting toilet, so really, that should be a tip off that maybe he wasn’t exactly life partner material.

The three-sided structure you built for me, in retrospect, was actually a great metaphor for your relationship and what was missing. The stability of that fourth wall, perhaps?

Was there too much air in your relationship as there was also in my little home on the cliff? I know he had some wicked flatulence.

The whimsy of an outdoor toilet as part of your woodsy, off-the-grid home and wanna-be campground/hostel really did play to your “Little House on the Prairie” obsession but can I just be honest? You my girl, were no Laura Ingalls Wilder.

I mean, if you really had your heart in it, you wouldn’t have had that battery-operated radio.

So, the hand-pumped water and wood cookstove were pretty on target but I really don’t understand why you didn’t put your foot down about hauling firewood while you were clearly “great with child.”

But we did have some good times, eh?! Remember that one time you drank a whole gallon of cheap Sangria? I do! And I get it. If I had to put up with that guy any more than I did, I would have bought stock in some Carlo Rossi, myself.

I may be only one step up from a pit toilet, but his bathroom habits made me cringe.

You know, from my vantage point, I could see the backside of the marriage and I knew how it was all going to come out in the end. I wanted to help but would you have listened to an eco-friendly receptacle for human waste?

I realized how seriously you took that “for better or worse” vow after you walked in on him making homemade bullets, in just his birthday suit – and didn’t leave.

I mean, naked bullet making? Really?

I can own some of the blame here. I was pretty far from shack you called the “cabin” and the path was downhill and not always clear of earthy debris. I think we both know you started to resent me.

It was very cold out. My solar-powered heater was having trouble keeping up but in theory, the now fertile soil you had created with your bodily waste would be cryogenically frozen and safe until spring. It had snowed and try as you might, your pregnant bladder wouldn’t let you sleep.

I was so excited to see you. I do love a good pregnancy; really makes me feel useful.

But I get it, the path was slippery and you had really had enough of his emotionally manipulative, isolationist bullshit.

Besides, I knew about the chamber pot.

After that, it was clear it was over. For you, for me and for him. You’d visit during the day, but you never said much. Empty promises and veiled threats are terrible conversation starters.

But, you can hear a lot from the edge of the mossy cliff, I will say.

There was no more hilarity over the “poo-stick” and the stirring was half-hearted at best. It was a good run while it lasted. I really wish you could have kept me in the divorce. I think I would have been a lot happier. I was sold to some fairly unclean young man who is not as invested in the wondrous, rich and fertile soil I can produce.

At least I can continue to lord it over the others. I’m still the only BioLet 15 Composting Toilet to ever be given as a wedding gift. It’s a pretty dependable and lasting claim to fame in the world of shit tanks – I’m good with that.

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Stacy Stevenson (@TheRealStacyES) is a hard working boss lady in higher education with the best name alliteration this side of Toledo. Stacy lives in Ashtabula, Ohio and moonlights as a veritable cornucopia of wit and sarcasm to her mildly tolerant family. Published works can be found at The Belladonna, RobotButt, Sammiches And Psych Meds, MockMom, the Medium and ABCNews.com archives where she once wrote about a rabid squirrel shot down in the town of Knutsford, England.