The Bathroom Stall (Number 2)

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The Bathroom Stall

The word is large. A bathroom stall is small. Whilst out in the world, trodding and plodding like we all do, there are many actors at play, many rituals and norms that we all adhere to (barring certain extreme circumstances, namely Scarsdale). Occasionally, the universe shrinks and all outside your cranium is metaphysical. These are solitary moments with the self, when you assume that the outside world is functioning and moving along fine like it always is.

Today we shall focus on the revery of the bathroom stall. Sitting quietly atop a porcelain throne, one goes about his or her business. One sits in relative silence and is comforted by the fact that the procedure is endowed--to a large degree--with anonymity. One is encased within a shell, a very unique shell in which all that onlookers may ascertain about the inhabitant is the manner in which his/her feet are outfitted.

As a resident of Scarsdale, I see it as my duty--an unwavering one at that, which, if I do not do, I not only cease being Scarsdalean in every meaning and understanding of the term, but I also pose deep and concerning questions to myself about my purpose in life as a result of not adhering to a certain aspect of a life philosophy which dictates to a large degree my every action that I implement on the surface of this green Earth--to introduce chaos into the universe of an occupied bathroom stall.

"Crooooooo-wat!"

"Eeeeeeeer-wat!"

"Booooooo-knock!"

"WASP!"

"Raaaaaaaaaaaaw-swatch"

"Neeeeeeeeeeeee-loff"

"Booooooooooow-tock"

"NOSH"

I can scarcely imagine the thoughts and the confusion that this series of exclamations sets off in the universe of the bathroom stall which I am not a part of, but merely an anonymous inscrutable statistic in the metaphysical realm of the outside world that is in fact not part of the "stall universe," of which one lone person is an inhabitant of. All there is in response is resounding silence emanating from the stall. The Scarsdalean then leaves, vacating the innermost layer of the bustling, abstract humanity without.

Closing The Library

The sound of machinery hums, fills the void.
Every two minutes the grating sound of the minute hand scrapes its fraction of circumference, the other filler of The Friday Void.
8:29pm. In waddles manager and "The Library Closes in Thirty Minutes" in the same tone for years.
"Alright, flush 'em out."
I walk through the deserted building searching the crannies for patrons.
When I find one, you know what I say.
I say, "The Library Closes in 25 minutes," and they nod.
Sometimes I amuse myself.
"The Library Will be Closing In T-minus Twenty minutes. I repeat, The Library Will be Closing In T-minus Twenty Minutes."
My voice booms through a wide open room.The only way I can accurately describe this is to say that I state the fact in a similar manner to the New York Lotto Mega Jackpot man, and I chuckle.
I get annoyed when patrons are still in the library after Nine O'clock, the official closing time.
For instance, today at 9:02pm there was a girl in the computer lab, just sitting.
"The Library Closed Two Minutes Ago," I state with force. "Get out," I want to say.
So she gets out. It takes very little prodding, but still, get out before Nine. Come on.
I forgot to mention the bells. 30 Minutes, 15 Minutes, and 5 Minutes prior to closing time we sound the bells.
They are loud and occasionally I have a manager on board that delves deeply into the realm of Schadenfreude; he sounds the bells just a bit too long, potentially piercing patrons' tempanic membranes.
And we laugh.
And so the library closes on a Friday Night.
And so it goes.

The 5th of November

Warning: This will be apathetic, badly written, and who gives a fuck. It's the 5th.

I will remember the 5th of November. It will haunt me for the rest of my life. When I'm in the kitchen with some baby crying in the other room (assumed to be mine) I will remember it.

Today my brain awoke with what had to be a hemorrhage. I thought what might help this pain that reaches down under my spine and squeezes a few clumps of some crap inside of me, some crap that is me. Snorty. I remembered the 5th just as it happened to me. I went online and read "remember the 5th of November." Years ago it told me "he died." Snort snort snort snort.

Well last night I went out and crabbed a few bottles of something and mixed a few tablets of something and yelled at some silly hats or something. Infinity boy would have had a chuckle; fuck you if you wouldn't. A hearty two weeks late on a paper, and a grand ole shit ton of coke will be waiting on a table in some house of a few ol' pals tonight. Somewhere or something or whatnot there is a girl with Yates tat'ed to her ass and it makes me remember the 5th. I have my right to silence but I deny it. I deny it once and for all because that's what we who remember do. Time stopped, died, and had its hands shrivel on the 5; we're in no rush to awaken it.

There is a tumbling rocky crevice in the straight jaws of Scarsdale. It was founded after the 1st 5th. It was founded on tenets or something, but I guess probably not. This day is a reminder of apathy. If I could just...if I could just stop caring then the 5th would never repeat.

If for every year you graphed the level of pathetic you saw in our lives you would be sure to...shit, I don't even care to finish that sentence.

If the women who sometimes sleep in my bed knew that I just copied what I thought he might do...

When your head burns and your belly sends you running and the room is too dark to illuminate I am laughing. I don't want to laugh, I want to cry, "How can this be humanity?"

It was always a story of love. That's important. There's a girl I love, she doesn't love me. But I'm not supposed to remember that on the 5th.

Take advantage of me...please. Show me how much I can give. It's in the spirit. Rip me off, ruin my house, slap me and kiss me until I bleed. Do what you will, just bear with me on the 5th.

The roads of the country are inappropriate for today and please excuse my blaphemy, because I can't stop thinking of them. There's a tire mark on my chest. We should be in a top 5 saddest city and we should be clutching blue moons. It's important. We should have blue baths on the moon until our skin is saturated.


Oh, O, ohhhh. Mmm yes. Sam? UGHH. Caramel banquet. NAAmmmm. Jimmy Ribbon belly dance? Gimme, gimme, gimmicky signs of go. Ni! Knights that go...Home-run walk on a crotch. Blappy-kimmel sundance fest. Days of insanity pass with my chances to change. Remember. The titans?

Fudge. No. FUCKKKK. Fuck. Fuck everything.

Pen pal

Mongol,

Hey! Hi there! How are ya? I'm good, just studying for exams and stuff. How is Mongolia? I must admit that I know very little about it--except for its precise location in Asia (I used to play the game Risk a lot (Risk is a game in which the players are invited to attempt world domination (if they can (matter of fact, might be right up you alley! You should check it out.)))) Also, I heard that you guys were in control of Russia for like hundreds of years. That's pretty impressive. But, like what's goodi anyways? Genghis Khan. You like Genghis?

Let me know.

Love,

Renaud