Public Bathrooms

Have you ever seen the movie Trainspotting?  I can’t decide whether or not I want to publicly recommend it because I don’t want to accidentally forge a mental bond in your minds between “doing a bunch of heroin” and “Vick Kelsey”, but as I start to write this I can’t help thinking about that one scene in the beginning where Ewan McGregor goes into what is unquestionably the most foul bathroom anyone has ever imagined.  He goes diving into this toilet head first in search of a heroin suppository (do they make those?  They probably sell them at Rite Aid) that he accidentally pooped out, and you guys, I was physically cringing at the imagery – there was just like, shit all over the walls and no toilet paper and ugh.  In fact, that movie as a whole is seriously so fucked that I don’t even want to keep talking about it, unless it’s to mention the fact that I am sexually attracted to the way McGregor wears that shrunken baby shirt when he’s about to meet/fuck that high school girl at the club.

Right, though?  Or am I just disgusting . . .

Though Trainspotting really helped to slam my prejudices home, public bathrooms have been on my Shit List (PUN. INTENDED.) for a long time prior to me seeing that movie.  Just thinking about the concept of a public bathroom makes my stomach churn – here is a room divided up into little claustrophobic cubicles where you are supposed to go and evacuate all of your bodily fluids while in the presence of complete and total strangers who are also (sometimes simultaneously) evacuating their bodily fluids too.  Girl’s bathrooms are the fucking worst of all – and they have the gall to try and call it a “Ladies Room”.  “Ladies Room” my dick, who are we trying to fool here?  A public women's bathroom should at least be properly labeled – something along the lines of “Vagina Slaughterhouse” would be fitting enough, or at the very least, hang one of those “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” plaques above the door.  Guys think they are such hot shit for being allowed to let their Gross Flag fly freely; well I have news for you boys, you do not know the definition of the word “repulsive” until you’ve been within the heinous confines of a women's restroom.  What a low point for the human race.

I don’t know about the general population, but there is a carefully outlined itinerary of events that both have to and WILL occur when it comes to my using a public bathroom.  This usually happens in the context of a trip to the mall, and briefly, they are as follows:

• PHASE ONE: Massive Liquid Ingestion.  What’s this?  Chik-Fil-A is having a free Super-size, ice cold Lemonade day today?  Don’t mind if I fucking do.

• PHASE TWO: Slow Deterioration of Willpower.  Sucking back those six Lemonades sure seemed like a good idea, but now I’m trying on jeggings, and every time I bend over in an attempt to squeeze my sausage body into a size 4, I can hear my bladder protesting in fury.  As girls know, you have to essentially jump into a pair of jeggings, inching them up into position with little bounces that, when you’ve just inhaled over 90 ounces of sweet lemony goodness, are enough to puncture the swelling balloon that is your bladder.  After enduring this for a few seconds, I usually can’t take it anymore, which hails in . . . .

• PHASE THREE: Denial and Resolve.  After rushing out of the store in a frenzy, my mind races with impossible thoughts – “Maybe I don’t really have to go that badly?  I can totally make it home in time, this isn’t a problem, I’m going to be okay.”  As these inspirational mantras repeat themselves over and over again in my head, I see it – a small child falling down the stairs.  Any hope I had of holding it in goes up in flames as I try to suppress my laughter, and the mall suddenly becomes a surreal blur as I can feel myself about to pee everywhere.  This is the last straw – I must find a bathroom.

•  PHASE FOUR: Russian Roulette.  Opening the door to the public restroom provides the universe with implicit consent to enter you into a game of Russian Roulette.  You have no choice – you’ve got to pick a toilet (and fast), and at least one* of those hinged doors is going to swing open to reveal a stall filled with such unspeakable horrors that you will likely never eat again.  This is the shit covered bullet in the hypothetical revolver. 

Really it's just a matter of probabilities.

• PHASE FIVE: Self-Loathing.  Upon finding a suitable stall, and taking as many precautionary measures as are physically possible (i.e. covering the seat in individual squares of toilet paper and then hovering over it regardless of the protective barrier I've just created while standing in a physically distorted position to prevent myself from peeing in my pants), a wave of relief usually comes crashing down on my shoulders.  Not even a millisecond goes by, however, before this moment of bliss is replaced by a deep, soul-wrenching shame.  Emerging from the stall, deed signed, sealed, and delivered, I generally trudge over to the sink, taking extra care not to make eye contact with myself in the mirror.  It wouldn’t even matter if I did anyway – I wouldn’t recognize myself through the cloud of self-loathing hovering around my head.

Who am I?  (Who is this girl and how embarrassed is she that what was definitely her old default on Myspace is the first thing that comes up when you Google image search "Sad Girl in Mirror")

This helps to explain why I choose to do most of my clothes shopping online.  But you know what?  I come so close to being able to forgive and forget about the existence of public bathrooms because when it comes down to it, they really are there when you have nowhere else to go.  I come so close, that is, until I encounter that special strain of assfuckery, the Public Bathroom With No Paper Towel Option.

Go fuck yourself.

We’ve all seen and experienced one of these bathrooms.  It has no paper towels in sight, just hand dryers stapled mockingly to the walls as though you’ve got the five fucking minutes they require to actually dry your hands.  These bathrooms are the end-result of some environmentalist petitioning the White House about “saving the rainforest” and “protecting the Earth for future generations”.  It’s this kind of eco-friendly bukkake that drives me up the wall – for fuck’s sake, do we not think of the practical implications of our words, people?  I’m always in a state of disbelief when I realize that I’ve accidentally used one of these bathrooms; I wash my hands, and turn, searching fruitlessly for the paper towel dispenser that should be in its rightful place next to the sink.  They’re not there, of course.  Why would they be.  Why would anything go right when you’re using a public bathroom?  It’s not enough that you’ve already gone through the standards-lowering experience of using a public restroom; it’s not enough that everything you touch while in there is mysteriously and disturbingly wet; and it’s certainly not enough that you’ve had to open a stall door only to find a three foot high pile of someone else’s Chipotle remains.  It’s only enough after you’ve been reduced to smacking at the faucet every three seconds to get one spurt of ice cold water with which to rinse that pink industrial soap off, and then have to wipe your hands on your own pants in order to effectively dry them.  It’s only enough when, after 21 years of using restroom after restroom, you’ve bottled up enough rage to write a lengthy blog post about how public bathrooms are slowly ruining your life.

THEN AND ONLY THEN, MY FRIENDS, IS IT ENOUGH.



*This estimate is based on probability - of course, the larger the public restroom is (i.e. the more stalls there are), the greater your chances are of walking into one that contains shit, bloody tampons, or an aborted prom baby**.  While I'm sure there are statistics out there, I don't have the time or resources to find them.  Maybe I'll hire an intern.

**I'm sorry I keep making abortion jokes and talking about disgusting things.  I'm really a nice girl. 

Rite Aid

A lot of people that I know that are parents (i.e. my parents) talk about having dreams for their children (i.e. me).  These dreams usually all boil down to a single factor - the undying urge to give their child a “better life than the one I had growing up”.

Well. 

Ain’t that just sweeter than a candy coated blowjob.

How painful would a Lemonhead beej be, though.

Personally, if I ever decide to go through the vagina-disfiguring pain of literally CREATING another person (they have to SEW you back up, you know.  AND there is a good possibility that in all of that pushing, you will shit on your baby.  With everyone in the room watching and possibly videotaping.  Have you ever asked your mother if she pooped on you when you were born?  Because I have, and she didn’t, which is how I know I’m perfect.  Just stating facts here.) Anyway, if I ever decide to permanently destroy my vadge by birthing a human bowling ball, I really don’t think I’m going to have such lofty hopes as my parents had for me (because, let’s face it, my life rules).  Instead, I’ll probably have a lot of mostly generic ones, like “do well in school” and “don’t shit on the carpet”.  The leader of the aspiration pack, however, is most definitely going to be that my kids never have to experience the veritable hell-hole that is Rite Aid.

I don’t know if you know about the Hierarchy of Drugstores in the immediate New Jersey area, so let me spit some knowledge at you real quick.  Excluding the outliers of Duane-Reade and some ass-hattery of a pharmacy called “Happy Harry’s”, there are really only three major players in the Hierarchy of Drugstores: CVS, Walgreens, and Rite Aid. 

It's so majestic!

CVS:  At the top of the Hierarchy of Drugstores is CVS.  Now, with any drugstore you go to, you’re going to encounter the same universal issues – employees who are miserable, a shitty soundtrack blasting over the speakers, and at least one jug of expired milk in the fridge aisle.  These problems aside, however, it’s really a no-brainer to see how CVS is the elite of all drugstores: the air smells controlled, but clean; the aisles are labeled in an easily navigable manner; and everything is usually organized on the shelves in a visually pleasing display.  CVS even has that cool machine where you scan your little card and five different coupons print out for like, $3.00 off Enemas, and while you know you’re never going to use the coupons (maybe), it’s still fun that they’re there.  Basically, if drugstores were high school athletes, CVS would probably be that one really quiet kid on Varsity that everyone forgets about until they see him wasted at after-prom making out with Becky Sanchez.

This is supposed to be representative of the fact that every time I go into Walgreens, I feel like I'm on a bad acid trip.

Walgreens: One notch below CVS, warming the bench on the JV team, we find Walgreens.  Walgreens is generally mediocre, and I think it has to do with their choice of building rental – there always seems to be either too much shit in too little space, or too much space to the point where I become dizzy with the thought that the universe will never stop expanding and that my life is ending one second at a time and yet here I am picking out a birthday card that will wind up in the garbage anyway so really I might as well just give my dad the four dollars I’m spending on it and we can hang out together while he lights it on fire because what is money and why does society have laws if WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.  It’s this type of forced existential crisis that drops Walgreens in at the number two spot.  Also, whenever I walk into a Walgreens, I am immediately hit by a cold waft of what smells like both vomit and bleach.  But hey, at least they tried to clean, right?

My fellow True Americans, protesting Dante's Inferno.

Rite Aid: At the very bottom of the Hierarchy of Drugstores lies Rite Aid, aka the fat gothic girl who tried out for cheerleading as a joke (but secretly wanted to be on the team so, SO badly) and not only didn’t make it, but was offered the position of Mascot because everyone felt bad and wanted to make sure she wouldn’t kill herself in the face of this harsh rejection.  Speaking of killing yourself, that’s what I want to do every time I go into a Rite Aid (what a shitty fucking segue that was), and I think that the place would be more aptly named if it was called Satan’s Asshole instead.  I mean, like any normal girl, I judge the classiness of my drugstores based on the amount of judgment I can sense coming from the Pharmacy staff when I ask for Plan B.  At CVS, people are APPALLED at a Plan B request; at Walgreens, the staff raises a questionable eyebrow and offers a dismayed look; AT RITE AID, you don’t even have to ASK for permission to buy Plan B – it’s just sitting on a shelf next to all of the condoms and pregnancy tests, and when you bring it up to the counter to pay, the cashier tells you all about her last three abortions.  If you’re looking to buy any other product from Rite Aid, I suggest you bring a compass, surgical mask, and latex gloves, because I can guarantee you that every product in that ungodly excuse for a drugstore will not only have been thrown onto the shelf with no apparent logical order, but will also be coated in some kind of sticky film that is more than likely cockroach semen.

I had to take a break from writing this just now so I could meditate for a few minutes on the positive aspects of life.  You see, that’s what Rite Aid does to people – it sucks out all hope for a better world, and replaces it with images of toothless employees drooling at you while you try to purchase the latest Cosmopolitan and a liter of Evian.  I’m not sure if I’m just inclined to hate the place because of its blatant disregard of spelling rules (alternative titles for this post include “Rite Aid: Am I Rite or Am I Right?”; “What’s Right About Rite Aid?”; and “Why Rite Aid is a Fucking Piece of Shit.”). I’m sure there are some people out there that might disagree with me on the (valid) points I’ve raised here.  It is to those people that I’d just like to say, Fuck You.  Why?  Because the existence of Rite Aid is not only cheapening the entire human experience with its awfulness, but also because it is slowly ruining my life.

(Editor’s Note: This is a fictionalized, though educated, estimate of the global Rite Aid experience.  No studies have been done to support or deny these claims, probably because no one in their right mind would want to spend their time surveying our planet's giant shit stain, Rite Aid).

Clamshell Plastic Packaging

I thought I’d start this off with a pretty standard item that seems utterly hell-bent on giving me an anxiety disorder, and of course the first thing that popped into my mind was Clamshell Plastic Packaging.  For those who think they aren’t familiar with “Clamshell Plastic Packaging”, I’ve included a photograph and short hypothetical to refresh and stimulate your memories.

RECOGNIZE ME? I'M ABOUT TO RUIN EVERYTHING ABOUT YOUR DAY.

Picture it: You slowly rouse yourself out of a fitful night of sleep as the sun’s dawn-light beams slide gracefully into your room between the cracks in your curtains.  But alas!  Waking up alive is not the horrible misfortune it usually is on other mornings because this morning it’s . . . Christmas!  Within in seconds, you’re sprinting full-speed at the corpse of a tree standing in your living room, and, skidding to a halt, you lunge at the first poorly wrapped gift with the ferocity of an African child seeing food for the first time.  Clawing off the wrapper you find just the thing you’ve always wanted . . . a brand new Tamagotchi**.  It’s just sitting there, sparkling underneath its hard plastic shell, begging to be turned on, to be fed, to be loved - begging for LIFE.

But unfortunately, after fifteen pointless minutes of clawing at the shell of that casing, you’re still no closer to your baby Tamagotchi than that African child is to a Big Mac.  You lie in a lifeless pile of misery on the floor, openly weeping, your fingers sliced and bleeding from plastic paper-cuts.  Your parents eventually come downstairs to find you dead from blood loss – the Clamshell Plastic Packaging lay menacingly next your body, waiting for its next victim.  And at your funeral your father’s speech talks about how promising your life would have been had you not met your untimely end via a manufacturer’s decision to encase Tamagotchi’s in a vacuum sealed plastic coffin that would absolutely decimate your nubile skin as you tried to open your new toy, causing the fatal loss of blood that resulted in you having your own coffin (only this one is made of wood).  Under his lawyers advisement, your father vows to avenge your death by suing National Plastics, Inc. (yes, I Googled “Who manufactures Clamshell Plastic Packaging . . . this hypothetical situation requires utmost accuracy), who settles out of court for over a million dollars in order to keep the whole thing quiet.  But all the money in the world won’t bring you back to life.

Back in the present day, we see Clamshell Plastic Packaging (CPP) everywhere, and I’m left wondering whether or not the entire appeal of CPP is some sort of unconscious expression of societal masochism.  We must want to punish ourselves to badly that even after months of saving up for some pricey, three inch by one inch designer electronic whatever we put it in a package that we cannot physically open on our own.  Even scissors can barely do the job:

CPP: 1, SCISSORS: PWNED

In fact, unless you own a hacksaw, or know a friend who knows a guy who sells some black market knives that cut through cans (and bones), it’s pretty safe to say you’re never going to be able to break through the impenetrable fortress that is CPP.  And it’s not just that mutant hybrid of secret agent government plastic that’s the problem – it’s also the fact that everything packaged in CPP is air sealed in there, cryogenically frozen in the Plastic-Time continuum that Stephen Hawking was writing his next book about when he died (Editor’s note: Stephen Hawking isn’t dead.  Yet.). 

It’s just that, why?  Why are we doing this to each other, and (more importantly) to ourselves?  What is the point of Clamshell Plastic Packaging – what does it want from us, and why is it here? Is this Ancient Aliens technology, meant to teach us a lesson about consumerism and letting that damn kid in Africa starve while we buy USB ports and/or Tamagotchis and drink Big Mac Smoothies?  I wish I could give answers to even just one of these questions, but for now the only thing I know for certain is that Clamshell Plastic Packaging is slowly ruining my life.

**Do people still have Tamagotchis?  Is a Tamagotchi an acceptable Christmas gift?  Once, I was supposed to be watching my friend’s Tamagotchi, and I let it die because I forgot to clean its poop for an hour, and of COURSE I couldn’t find a fucking pencil to press into that little back button so I could restart it and pretend nothing had ever happened.  When I gave it back to her I didn’t even say anything, just stared at my feet and handed it to her, and then ran away before she could get mad at me (Freudian impacts on my current interpersonal relationships).  She took it pretty hard and refused to acknowledge my existence for a week after that, which is at least three months in third grade terms.  I’m sorry I killed your Tamagotchi, Holly.  If I knew where you lived/whether or not you were still alive, I’d totally mail you a Tamagotchi for Christmas.