I Hate NYC Public Restooms
Spending over a few accumulated months of work time in the US, I can safely say that I have reached a conclusion that there is something terribly wrong with restrooms in the United Stated of America.
Now, by no means are my findings limited to the US, on the contrary, they will most probably hold true to a great number of places outside the US.
In a sense, really, my accumulated time in the US served nothing more than a catalyst to the crystallization of this grim reality in my mind.
I have come to the conclusion that the vast majority of “Office” American restrooms, (at least over 99% percent of them as I seem to recall from my perfectly vague memory) encourage the proliferation of misanthropic behavior as well as general discomfort and alienation from one’s fellow co-workers and floor neighbors.
You see, during my time spent sitting on toilet seats in restrooms, I, like any other normal individual, have experienced the foul odors and generally other disgusting noises created by my neighbors occupying the near-by stools (pun intended).
Now, that left to itself is nothing new to any man, and, as I am also told, woman in the world. So far.. so good… so to speak.To understand the full complexity behind the social phenomena I’m referring to, one needs to take into consideration a special peculiarity of the way American (and in all fairness, I’m sure many other countries’) restrooms are designed, as opposed to the majority of restrooms I’ve been accustomed to to in the Country I come from.
American restrooms are not completely shielded at the foot level. i.e., while I sit and endure some of the most heinous bowl movements created by a Grande-Venti-Cream-Topped-Frappuccino-with-Skim-Milk, produced by my restroom neighbor, I can’t help but begin to associate the form, shape, size and design of his shoe to the apocalyptical shit-storm thundering no more the two feet away from me.
This is the key to explaining my behavior through-out the impending work day. I walk the corridors of the office petrified that at one brisk moment, that perfect memory of mine will rear its ugly head, and suddenly, the so-far “innocent” memory of the shoe I’ve made in the restroom will close a full loop and I will begin associating the hideous smells and roars of intestinal collapse to a fellow worker’s face and in all probability completely go postal and hurl on the person walking across the hall from me.
For this reason I try to move like a pale ghost in the office. Forcefully preventing myself from gazing down on to someone shoes, feverishly attempting to calculate the 7th power of a random prime number (always ending up calculating 17^7). I fear making any formidable social connections with my fellow co-workers, always imaging what would happen if that person would invite me to a dinner at his house where I will suddenly see his full collection of work-shoes, while entering his house, forever committing him into the danger pool of people whose mere sight I attempt to avoid at all costs.