Jack of All Trades, Master of None

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m fuggin’ late!”  My heart pounds as I race to class.  The room is abuzz with the low din of conversation– young, old, and international beings grace the atmosphere as I fight with a girl from Holland for a seat next to my Jordanian pal.  She is beautiful and chooses a seat next to mine instead.  Guilt creeps over the placid overlay on my face as she strokes my long, brown hair– she motions to the students behind me and introduces us.

“This is the beautiful Liz,” she says with confidence.  I can feel the rush of blood in my cheeks– a medal to display my careless rudeness toward her.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little sweaty from rushing to class,” I say back to her.  “I have to use the restroom before class begins.”

Rushing to the nearest facility, I swing the door open.  Stalls line the walls in an endless hall, like mirrors that face each other moments before the dueling draw.  Making my way to the furthest stall, I gently grasp at the roll of conglomerate-issue sandpaper, known as commercial toilet paper.  I prepare to squat, as the once white toilet seat has taken on a yellowish hue– a sign of improper keep.  As a woman, I can not control the flow.  I spray my leg and floor with vitamin-enriched waste fluid.  The bright yellow liquid swirls around on the wet floor toward the drain in between my stall and the one to the left of me.  Despite the restroom’s infinite size, I gain a neighbor in that left stall.  She voices her opinion of the mess on the floor, spouting venomous words coated in spite for the one who did such a deed.  I squeeze off whatever flow was left to save myself further embarrassment.  This can’t be good for my bladder.