This is a true story about toilets.

Once upon a time, there was a washroom with two stalls. Two fair undergrads strode in, with dreams of porcelain and Purell in their eyes. But alas, both stalls were already occupied. To dispel the awkwardness, the undergrads made small talk about their summer courses. It did not work. The smell of industrial-strength disinfectant and cheap pink soap filled the air between them. Tired of standing so close to an overflowing rubbish bin, the one on the left announced: "Hey, people in the washroom..."

Unbeknownst to the two fair undergrads, one of the stalls was sick. The other one was attempting to take her talents to South Beach. It was she who yelled at the sweet summer students that if they REALLY wanted to drop the Obamas off at the White House as well, they could do it down the hall, on the right. The undergrads scurried off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

Of course, my directions actually came out in between a string of swears not nearly as clever as the metaphors I just googled. This is my life now. Backtracking in my mind to figure out what would have been the cleverest retort. Then blogging about it. Justin favours "I LITERALLY CAN'T POOP ANY FASTER."

But really, is no place sacred??? How is it acceptable to tell someone to hurry up?