6-03-00
Yesterday, I walked into the women's room at work to use the facilities and see what all of the "it's too sooooooon!!!" hullabaloo was all about. Other than being unnaturally stinky, something I will never understand about the public women's restroom at work -- every man's restroom I have ever been in was stinky-ish to downright ungodly, while the women's room always smells like fruity deodorizer or flowers -- the bathroom appeared undamaged from the strange near-death events of late last week. The only sign of the carnage was a small sticky brownish stain in the grout near my feet in the second to last stall, which I strongly suspect to be blood that was mopped into said grout by the inefficient clean-up crew.
Walking out of the bathroom, I made a point of sharing the fact that I had not only used the bathroom, but had also made it out alive. I only meant that it wasn't lethal to go in there and they could all stop using the salon restroom because there's not an unholy curse on the public one, but I think some people thought I was making a sick joke about not feeling compelled to kill myself while I was in there. Either way, the nitwits that work in the store can stop pretending they are some kind of fairer, more delicate creatures. You can't see the blood if you aren't looking specifically in the grout for it.
And I must admit that I am terribly chagrined, because one week ago I posted all about my parents taking advantage of me, and then not even a week later posted pretty much the same exact thing as another entry. I can only blame this on the goldschlager. Honestly, today I had to go back and re-read the entry from last friday, because I couldn't even remember what the hell I was talking about that day. Now you all probably think I'm a drunken idiot. I am sometimes, you know.
