Here I sit, down and brokenhearted, came to shit, but only farted
-Legendary bathroom wisdom.
I suffered from mild digestive issues this weekend. I was very gassy. It lasted from Saturday evening through Sunday afternoon. Gassy and cramping, but not feeling sick. In fact, I didn’t feel sick enough to avoid eating that large slice of Costco pepperoni pizza and a Polish dog (plus I ate half another slice that was left).
Nevertheless, by Monday my intestines had calmed down, but some of the stray gas bombs lingered.
The urge to POO clouded with the failure to deliver. It’s OK. I don’t get down about things like this. ‘Tis mother nature fooling with my guts. I’d rather have gas that goes nowhere than gas that leads to messy lost gambles.
That’s right, I’m an optimist. If I attempt a POO and am only greeted with a long, teapot stream of gaseous expulsion into the toilet water, I try look at the bright side. The glass is half full. Gas only is so much better than the flip side; nothing is quite as horrific and galling as the attempt to confidently slip out some gas kernels in a public situation only to discover sadly that the gas is not travelling alone. This is tragedy, my friend.
By today, on the heels of my weekend intestinal chaos, I still had a little gas.
In the afternoon I decided it was time to head to the restroom and confront this fart demon once and for all. Either there was a restrained crapsule waiting to be delivered to the toilet, or I would simply release a lot of hot, sulfuric air.
Something had to happen. Something had to break!
Wind, that is.
This happened in the afternoon. I was relieved to enter an empty restroom.
I hate, hate, hate, taking a crap when there are other guys in the restroom. If no one else is in there, I feel that I can mimic that mental state, the self-assured comfort that occurs when I use my home bathroom. Utter relaxation on the john leads to an auspicious movement of grand proportions.
I immediately headed to the last stall by the wall in the hopes I could quickly fulfill my fecal duty before anyone walked in and disturbed my flow. An empty restroom is a rare gift, one must contain it.
There are 3 sinks against the wall which I walked by to reach the last stall. As soon as I closed the stall door and began coating the seat with toilet paper (I don’t use the ass gasket/toilet seat covers…it takes too long, and time is precious when I’m trying to squeeze out some harmony before an intruder disrupts my public solitude), one of the sinks started to run. The water streamed down for about 10 seconds. Huh?
Every sink, toilet and urinal in this building is triggered by motion sensor. The urinals and toilets have manual triggers in case you want to flush, but the sink faucets are only operated by motion.
I was the only person in the quiet, fluorescent restroom, yet something triggered one of the faucets. I’ve been a little freaked out lately because I’ve read too much about the Elisa Lam case and all the kooky theories. Ironically, sometimes the most frightening place in the world can be an empty, stark restroom with really bright lighting and motion controlled faucets that go off randomly when no one else is around except you and you are about 15 feet away from the sink.
You are alone, right? You sit and wonder. The water finally stops, the timers dictating the duration of the spooky running. The water ran and stopped and no one got wet.
I had a hard time with my POO.
I left the bathroom, brokenhearted.