Writer's Block, Vol. I.

I sat in a grey office, dimly lit. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was little to do but reminisce about the bad lunch with my colleagues. Man, work sucks today. I knew I shouldn’t have had that extra portion of veal curry. That was going to come back to haunt me pretty soon. But then I thought, well, going to the washroom is the most enjoyable part of my work day, so that’s a good thing, which either means that I really don’t like my job, or that I like pooping a little too much. Either way, I was looking forward to veal curry’s triumphant return south of the border.

So, sometime not long after this revelation, I got the call. I entered into the washroom and saw an orange peel in the garbage can. Who is taking oranges into the washroom? More importantly, who is peeling oranges in the washroom? I needed to drop my deuce, so I ventured into one of the stalls, only to find some kind of cocoon built on and around the toilet. Don’t get me wrong, I understand covering the seat with a thin veil of rough public washroom paper in a useless attempt to protect yourself from flying herpeecrabs and liquid chlamydia, but this was just insane. I couldn’t even see the toilet seat. I couldn’t even see the water. This person actually brought paper towel from outside the stall to help build his little nest. I didn’t need to see anymore to know that this was not the stall for me. Who does this to a toilet? Hopefully it’s not the same moron who pees in the stall without putting the seat up, and manages to get it all over the seat and even hit the toilet paper dispenser and the surrounding floor, which was the story of the second stall. Who are these people? I decided that I would try and hold it in. Then this guy came in and washed his hands before peeing, but then not after. Who does that? Moreover, what was he playing with before his visit to the washroom that had him convinced he needed to wash up before handling his junk? Probably oranges. I guess the citric acid could sting a little on the ol’ peener. And why the instructions on how to wash our hands? If people haven't figured out how to wash up at this point, are we really to believe that the problem is that they haven't been properly shown? Obviously it's part of some multi-million dollar government effort to eliminate swine-cow-bird-caca-flu.

"Oooooh, you dry at the end! I was drying first, then rinsing and then putting soap all over my hands." or
"Ahhh, that man just sneezed into my open mouth, I'd better go wash my hands. Hopefully the bathroom here has instructions."

That's how it works, and we are that stupid, apparently. As I left the washroom, I noticed that the next guy walking in was wearing open toe sandals. To me, this seemed like a dangerous choice for a public washroom, especially one used by people with such shockingly bad urinary aim. He had toothpaste and a toothbrush in his hand, hopefully to brush his teeth with.

On the way back to my desk, I ran into that idiot that walks around the office real fast, in an attempt to look busy and important all the time. This is usually the same person who writes everything they've ever heard at work in a little notebook. Hey, I wonder, do they have shelves full of notebooks at home? Are they figuring that someday the CEO will walk in and say, “excuse me, but what did I say eight and one quarter years ago, at the company meeting? Oh, you know? Awesome, you get an instant super promotion…”? Not gonna happen, busy bee. Busy bee tripped over my extended leg, accidentally of course, and went flying out the window. It made a really cool sound. The whole floor cheered. I returned to my cubicle, where I sat watching the clock until quitting time. “I sure could use a muffin”, thought I. In my peripheral vision I could see someone napping. Maybe they were dead, but probably they were just sleeping. You could hear people, all around, complaining about how much work they have to do, but it is obvious that no one is doing any of said work. And then quitting time arrived. Quitting time's arrival is always kind of anti-climactic isn’t it? I wish that just once it could be like in the Flintstones. You know, with a squawking bird and I could slide down a stegosaurus?

It was raining out, so I had to dodge umbrellas. Despite my best efforts, some guy ran into me with his umbrella, top speed. In an attempt to shield himself from the rain, he had the umbrella in front of him, thus blocking his entire field of vision. The tip of the umbrella went directly into my eye. He said sorry and smirked and then, thankfully, ten seconds later, has a similar encounter with a bus. He flew through the air, umbrella still in hand, all supercalifragilistic and shit. As the paramedics took him away, he said sorry and smirked. Somewhere between then and the time that I got home, I thought of something really hilarious to write about tonight and then fell asleep on the subway. I can’t remember what it was though. I think it may have involved the fat lady busker’s monotone singing of “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” dressed head to toe in a hot pink snowsuit, but I could be way off. They say if you retrace your steps, that the idea may come back to you. Well I just did, super accurately, not making anything up at all or changing events in history, and the idea hasn’t come back to me. And now it’s becoming increasingly annoying to type with this eye patch on. In conclusion, umbrellas are for assholes, and it’s probably best to time your poops for your at-home hours of the day. Oh yeah, and don’t bring food into the bathroom.

That’s it. I’m going to go make a grillcheese sandwich and have a good sit.