The following thoughts have flickered through my mind in rapid succession at least once a week for as long as I have worked on the fourth floor of Gawker Media's offices.
- Oh no, the only open bathroom is the one by Deadspin's table. That's "the shitting bathroom."
- I'll just wait for another bathroom to open up.
- [jiggling leg, jiggling leg, jiggling leg]
- Okay, I really can't hold it any longer.
- Aaaughhuighihhh, it's like a diarrhea bomb went off in here. Hold your breath. Hold your breath.
- Even if I lit a match, it wouldn't eliminate this stink. The whole room would just ignite into a gaseous ball of fire, like napalm.
- That copy of Maxim looks suspiciously dog-eared.
- Hey there's a tic-tac-toe board on the ceiling. What's in the squares, though?
- Oh my god, those are boogers. They are playing booger tic-tac-toe.
- I have to get out of this bathroom. Right now.
- Why are there pubes in the sink?
- Is someone in this office homeless?
- That can of Febreze looks exhausted.
- [bursts out of door, gasping]
- Oh no, someone is waiting to use this bathroom. How can I communicate that the horrible stench he is about to encounter is not my fault, when I have only a split second of nonverbal communication available to get my message across? Wait— no— don't go in—
- Too late. He went in.
- Whatever, he's probably flicking his boogers at the ceiling while simultaneously masturbating and pooping, anyway.
- Boys are gross.
Sand through the hour glass, pee through the toilet bowl, these are the bathroom dilemmas of our lives.