thehedgehog

it's dark with that one crappy light, and the room is so small you can lean back on the black tar-paint graffiti walls all slovenly and off-balance while you're on the job. and there's always the same stuff on the walls, even though they paint over it now and again. there's always that pandora's box bullshit 50 sex toy machine with the cheesy cartoon lady on the front that gets drawn on, and then someone makes it into an advert for the band pop-a-wheelie across her chest. there's always something about bill cosby pudding pops towards the ceiling.
it's a single-person bathroom so you're locked in there for a minute, with tons of people outside if it's a busy night, and you're rocked good and proper, and it's like this five seconds where the evening goes in slow motion. where you sit back and think "good lord i'm off my face. and i'm back here at the old bar. and i'm completely safe and having a great time and nothing bad can happen as long as i'm here."

it's probably the silliest and most unlikely place to have a feeling of glowing peace, comfort and safety in the world. what can i say, going to the bathroom while wasted at hugos always makes things feel as if they're going right.









(oh, and hi.)