Thursday, October 28, 2004

Toiletiquette. Wayne and I have something in common. Have I told you that I hate public toilets? Hate-hate-hate-wouldn’t-wanna-date-hate. Hate ‘em, nasty places. Airport toilets, disgusting. Toilets in foreign countries or backward rural areas, ugh. The worst I ever saw was at that Parthenon in Athens where someone had wiped poop on the walls with their bare hands. Oh Prometheus and Aphrodite, please strike them down.

I hate the toilet at work. You can’t lock the door and the stall isn’t very private. People who wander in can see your sandal-clad feet as you sit there, embarrassed to be caught bare-assed. Some of my straight male co-workers are totally oblivious. The general rule in my playbook is that when the fan is on, stay out. Instead, a couple of the guys will even strike up a conversation during that time of desired-solitude. Oh fucking Christ, don’t they realize that this isn’t a shared moment, this is a time of expulsion, or exile. Leave me be, or let me be alone, as Garbo once said.

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