On Thursday, the bathroom by the main entrance smelled unusually foul as I entered to change into my gym clothes after work. Usually, it is filled with sweetly antiseptic air, even if the fixtures look a bit dingy from heavy use.
I opened the first stall, where I usually change for the gym and discovered the source of the stink: a human turd lying on the floor. Funny, I thought, since the person who used the toilet was concerned enough about hygiene to place a tissue-paper cover on the seat. I closed the door and changed in the neighboring stall.
These situations make me paranoid. I don’t want to become known as the guy who left his shit on the floor, especially when I wasn’t the guy who’d done it. I made up my mind to tell a custodian, though I wasn’t fond of doing so. How do you tell someone that there’s a lump of feces on the floor and you expect them to take care of it without sounding like an elitist prick?
I could a custodian and approached with trepidation. He must have sensed my dilemma. Before I could speak, he said, “I know about it,” in a tone of voice that could only be spoken in reference to having to pick a lump of someone else’s shit off a bathroom floor. We parted ways.
Friday, I entered the bathroom to change for the gym. The sweetly antiseptic air had returned. I opened the first stall to change and saw that the turd wasn’t gone; instead, it had been moved to the toilet. I got dressed in the neighboring stall.
[video]
!!!It’s the cat with the glowsticks that’s killing me.
With each passing day, cats tighten their strangle hold on the Internet.
(via fuckyeahlost)
So true.
I wonder what Kafka would think of Costco. Would he call it Kafkaesque? The Staten Island Costco on Richmond Ave. is typical of the chain. It’s an immense, windowless building surrounded by a treacherous parking lot. Inside, a labyrinthine series of large steel racks with exposed piping and countless rows of soul-siphoning fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. You can’t get in without a card. You can’t leave without getting searched.
Tonight I accompanied my parents on their biannual trip to Costco, so I could help them haul mammoth items from the store to the car and from the car to the house. We filled up two carts: chicken cutlets, a leg of lamb, cleaning products, personal hygiene items, an assortment of fruits, roughly all of the Sweet N’ Low ever produced and a box of oatmeal cookies, of which I’ve already eaten three (delicious).
We brought our carts to the checkout area, the most angst-inspiring area of any Costco. It seems that less space is allotted for checkout at a Costco than what you’d find at a regular supermarket, which is extremely vexing considering that Costcos offer customers shopping carts so large that they come equipped to seat two babies.
A school of carts swam aimlessly in the poorly defined checkout aisles. The claustrophobia hit one lady pretty hard. She was wearing blue sweatpants and her children were writhing around on the floor. She accused a young couple, remarkable for holding just a couple items, of cutting her in line. I gave her credit for being able to discern there were lines at all. She kept yelling, her children continued to fidget on the floor. Eventually a woman from a different line, overhearing the commotion, invited the couple to cut in front of her.
The woman in sweatpants continued raving. I stared at the lights and wondered what it would be like to be a cockroach.
Cthulhu is my homie.
Overheard at the bar last night:
Female patron (to male patron): Smell my hand. It’s musty, right?
Listening to Baroness’ Blue Record and dreaming of giant stone monoliths to climb and stand triumphantly upon.
Also…
I love it when she talks dirty.
A few nights ago, I had a dream that I’d gotten someone pregnant. I didn’t remember who, only that the pregnancy was unplanned. One night we were drunk and the condom broke.
The baby was delivered without complication. I only saw the mother on a video screen; we chatted via some sort of video interface. She changed appearance a few times, but she always had beautiful eyes. She blew me a kiss, and I went to go see my daughter. My mom would be excited to become a grandmother, I thought.
The newborn was clothed in a dress, and had thick black hair—uncharacteristically thick, I thought, for a baby. She was seated in the center of a large bed and smiled when she saw me. I sat down for a closer look: She had my eyebrows, I noticed, and I was thankful she had her mother’s eyes. She also had my nose, which I suppose is kind of large. On her tiny face, it looked out of place.
I wanted her to grow up to be pretty like her mother, so I lightly flicked the tip of her nose, and it fell off. Her nose now fit her face, but seemed artificially tiny—almost Michael Jackson-like. I was worried I’d made a mistake. There was no going back now. But I convinced myself, “She’s young. It will fill out as she gets older.”