Potty Blogging

I write and I wait. An excruciatingly painful wait outside a non-descript burger joint. For the safety of my internal organs I made my boyfriend stop for an ice cream shake I don’t want just so I can use this ‘customers only’ bathroom. The urge to pee is not like a headache that may or may not go away. The bladder is a hollow organ, like the lungs and the stomach. They are more prone to injury in car accidents. A paramedic friend told me that the next time you thing you’re going to crash, scream and pee at the same time. Empty those balloon organs so they can’t get hurt.

How many hours have I spent waiting for a public toilet? I don’t know but they are hours measured by the agony I was in waiting for them. This truly has to be the oldest form of masochistic torture. Finding a bathroom is an unavoidable part of being a female with (some) sense of decorum.

There was the McDonalds somewhere in Riverside where an obese elderly woman beat me to the solitary stall by a matter of inches. The sound of the lock bolting was followed by a long lethargic fart telling me to seek relief elsewhere. Then there was the horror of the port-o-potty outside Pahrump, Nevada, (don’t ask me what I was doing in Pahrump). That grossness forced me to test the downward winds and piss in the great wide open.

Hey, guys do it constantly. True, they’re stealthier and covert but I must admit I have acquired good aim. I told my mom of my new skills and she wailed that she raised a barbarian without decorum. I’m just trying to protect my balloon organs in the end.
 
This does little to soothe me at the moment. The urge to piss grows the longer the dawdler bogarts the stall. I am ready to go off and that will result in lots of yelling, maybe some crying, and a puddle of pee at my feet. None of those things are appealing to me.

The only thing keeping me from dropping my drawers now is the self-service carwash to my left and an Ozzie and Harriet residential neighborhood to my right. None of them would appreciate the sight of my bare white butt. Then again, those car washers…naw, I can’t.

Decorum always wins out.