Drug Test

Today was my first time taking a drug test. Not the fun kind where they try different substances — the kind where you pee in a cup while a nurse watches you like a hawk, then they analyse it to see if you’ve been using.

I prepared thoroughly. Drank lots of water, avoided the bathroom, and came up with a few witty lines just in case: “It’s a bit chilly in here, that’s why it looks so small,” “This must be a nice break for you between blood tests,” and my personal favourite, “Does this look inflamed to you?”

I arrived early — half an hour ahead of time. Sitting in the waiting room, I started to feel the urge badly. The appointment time came and went. They were late. I sat cross-legged, repeating in my head: just a little longer.

Finally, my number was called. The nurse took my ID and said they’d be collecting a urine sample. Then sent me back to the waiting room to be picked up. Cross-legged again, I waited an eternity until another nurse fetched me. We confirmed my info, checked my passport, washed hands, and meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder grew unbearable.

Eventually, the nurse pointed to the bathroom: sample in the cup, please. I opened the cup, pulled out the bald-headed one-eyed eagle from my pants, aimed… and nothing. I waited. Still nothing.

I glanced to the side where the nurse was staring intently at my family jewels. But no matter how hard I tried, not a single drop came out. Standing there with a cup in one hand and my junk in the other, I remembered my clever lines — and suddenly the situation struck me as absolutely hilarious.

I tried desperately not to laugh, shoulders trembling, and the nurse probably thought I was crying. She said, “Let’s take a little break.” I couldn’t respond — too afraid I’d burst out laughing. On her third suggestion to take a break, I had composed myself enough to tuck things away and pull up my pants. She told me to wait 15 minutes in the lobby, and then we’d try again.

Back in the waiting room, the urge to pee came roaring back. I even wondered if I wet myself, could they collect the sample that way. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Finally, I was called in again.

Cup in one hand, willy in the other, aimed — and still nothing. Sweat beaded on my temples. The veins in my forehead bulged as I tried to force it. Eventually, I managed to squeeze out just enough into the cup that I dared ask, “Is this enough?” The nurse examined it thoroughly and seemed satisfied. Pants back on.

Then immediately, a wave of pee desperation hit again. I scrambled into the rest of my clothes, but the nurse calmly said, “Hang on, we need to do the paperwork.” There she was, leisurely filling out forms while I did a shifting dance from foot to foot. Eventually she said, “Signature right here.” I scrawled something indecipherable and dashed out.

The moment I got outside, I broke into a sprint — a hundred meters home at Usain Bolt speed. In the elevator, I started to panic: what if my kid’s in the bathroom when I get there? Where would I go? Thankfully he wasn’t. I bolted straight to the bathroom, nearly tripping over the dog at the door, unzipped, whipped it out just in time — and bam! Full release. The first few splashes didn’t quite hit the bowl, but I was so relieved I didn’t even mind mopping the floor afterward.