Once I had diarrhea in Boston’s Jordan Marsh department store.
Once I got lost at a carnival but without diarrhea.
Strictly speaking you shouldn’t care about either circumstance.
The trick of creative writing is to make you care and perhaps even put the stories together.
Can I do it?
So I had to buy new underpants right there in Jordan Marsh. The rest of the day I wandered seasick as any greenhorn. As I fought to keep myself upright and shit free Boston never looked more brilliant, aloof, magisterial, and vaguely hostile—which is to say it looked like itself.
Getting lost in the carnival involved disregard for authority. I’d gone there with my seedy, antisocial high school pals. In the haunted house train ride I hopped out of the car and vanished behind a pasteboard phantasm of Frankenstein’s monster. As I fought to keep myself upright and avoid electrocution what with the cables around my feet I saw how most of capitalism really works—which is to say fetish screams are manufactured with boards and volts.
Planet of the Blind 