2004-02-04 - 10:33 a.m.
I shall call her "Batty Bush."
She haunts me. Constantly seeking out the same bathroom stall as myself, she leaves her remnants all over the goddamned toilet seat.
I hate her.
Stall number two is mine. I christened it. It is mine, mine, mine forever and I expect it to be pristine, as pristine as a women's bathroom stall can get in an office complex. Such was the case until Batty Bush threw down the gauntlet for control.
She started off slow, a few long curlycues here and there, scattered almost gently along the shiny white porcelain. Hmm, that's strange, I thought, when I saw it for the first time. I gingerly wiped the bowl before attending to the business at hand.
Next week, however, she made her presence known. Like the aftermath of a weedwacker taken to an out-of-control bush, her dark, curly hair scattered across the porcelain seat. It was everywhere. I couldn't bring myself to use that stall, and for the first time, I had to use stall number three.
That bitch!
Every day since that first fateful dusting, she has left her shorthairs behind.
She has won this round, but she has not won the war. I have ideas with which I will regain control of stall number two. Perhaps I'll leave a coupon for a free bikini wax. Or I'll leave disposable razors taped to the stall door. I could write "HAIR" in large words, and draw the universal "no" sign over it.
One way or another, I'll take a piss in stall number two without fear of someone else's batty bush remnants touching my pristine skin.
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