Only a veteran knows your stressAt your desk, you cannot focus on your work as fear for your underwear consumes your mind. What if your secret seeps through? But you dare not stand up to check. Anyway, you wouldn't be able to know unless you asked someone to check for you, and that is not an option. This is a curse for you to suffer through alone. Instead, you stare blankly at objects in the distance. After the fact it is called post traumatic stress, but what do you call it when it's still going on? Hell? Whatever it's called, you're going through it right now and all you can think about is toilet paper, showers, ammonia sterilization, fire, and anything else that cleans. But still you refuse to stand. The fear of Troll Hole is too overwhelming. It owns you.
Eventually the realization of the disgrace you will put on your family name and your dress pants unless you clean up convinces you to the restroom. So, with the subtlety of a high school student attempting to smuggle alcohol into prom, you head back to the bathroom, red faced and sweating. If people didn't think something was going on already, your behavior now identifies you as a wrong doer. But, worry not, for masturbation is the assumed crime.
Once the door closes, you make sure to check every inch of the restroom for company. The stalls: empty. That is the only place to check, so you peek back out into the hallway to make sure that no one is coming, then slip back in and get to work. With three long tugs, you pull enough toilet paper to reach the ceiling. Twisting the sink faucet all the way to the right, you wait for a few seconds waiting for the water to get hot. You settle for lukewarm and then submerge the planet sized ball. With the sopping glob dripping behind, you head into the stall and get to work. With a vigor and excitement that can only be described by referencing this scene in the Jungle Book, you wipe your ass mad until you're content and clean and a human again and head out.
But, little did you know that the toilet paper had pilled and fallen apart, and the remnants now lodged themselves around the already uncomfortable places. You've basically put the fire out by swan diving into a giant pile of asbestos. And as you try to return to your desk once again, the toilet paper acts as a catalyst to the destruction of your rear. Every step you take causes your ass cheeks to rub together like two Brillo pads after cleaning out an extraordinarily crusted casserole dish. You wince, try to act fine, but your stoic attempts do not cover up the fact that you're working up a nice blister. By the time you make it to your desk you're raw, by the time you're at the car you're sure there is blood, and by the time you're home you're in tears on the phone with the one person who can help. And before she hangs up, you remind your mother to bring some diaper wipes. Baby made a boo-boo.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
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