It is unfortunate that I— a person who pees a lot— works for a company called Slave-Driving Bastards, Inc.; unfortunate, not only because they are slave-driving bastards who don’t give you the holidays off, but they also only allot their employees ten personal break minutes throughout a 9-hour shift. And don’t get me started on personal minutes being bad minutes because I have too much anger coursing through my veins right now. Blood drive, what? HOW ABOUT I FUCKING DONATE 20CC OF RED HOT ANGER YOUR WAY, ASSHOLE?
It is also unfortunate that there are only four washrooms per floor of our building, one for each sex on each wing. There are about 200-300 agents per wing. I’m sure that about half of that 200-300 are made up of humans with vaginas. So that’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Four. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls.
Until last Monday, when they hung an Out of Order sign on one of the doors.
That’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Three. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls. Since Monday.
It doesn’t really bother me. What bothers me is when I need to, like, REALLYFUCKINGGO (like OMG, can you see the crotch of my jeans darkening? YEAH, I NEED TO GO, LET ME IN RIGHT NOW) and I hit Aux-1 on this godforsaken Avaya phone and then dash to the washroom and—
Is there a party or a prayer meeting going on in the ladies’ washroom? Or did everybody decide to have their lunch here? What’s with all the people?
So I stand there with my butt resting on the sink, my feet going tap-tap-tap and my arms crossed while I wait for a free stall. Usually, there’s a line of about 3-4 vagina-bearing humans waiting for their turn. And because we’re human beings and we’re all supposed to be nice, common courtesy dictates that if you were the first person in the washroom to wait for a free stall, YOU GO FIRST. If you’re the second person, YOU GO SECOND. And so on. I don’t care if you’re the eighteenth person in there and you’re literally pissing your pants and crying, YOU GO EIGHTEENTH.
Unless someone takes pity on you, of course, and let’s you go ahead of them.
So I could really shank a bitch when someone messes the order of things and is rude enough to take my place in line. Like, I could shank that certain bitch. The one who messed up the order of things. Because you just don’t do that!
A few minutes ago, someone attempted to do exactly just that to me. Did she think I was, I don’t know, just hanging out in the washroom, staring at the putrid orange doors and NOT waiting in line to pee? The second I heard the door’s metal lock slide to (surprise!) unlock and the second I saw her make a step towards the stall, I fucking RAN. I tell ya. I RAN. I cut her off, RAN inside the stall, and slammed it shut.
More common courtesy that should be exhibited in the washroom: do not hog the sink. Especially when there are only two.