The Internet's No. 1 Blog

The following is an account of a horrific period in my life which happened about 5 months ago. At the time it was written, I did not feel comfortable publishing it.

"Today as I finished my astronomy quiz on cosmology and dark matter, I went to Waggener Hall to await the commencement of my Latin class. Like I often do whenever I have any free time, I went to the restroom.

I entered the restroom (one of the most aesthetically pleasing on campus with its marbled stall walls and doors, a small antechamber leading into it, and ornate urinals presumably manufactured circa 1962; the only problem is the constant coffee-piss smell...) and moved to one of stalls, for I did, indeed, need to go #2. I hung my backpack on the provided hook and moved to close the faux-marble door.

I always feel the need to securely lock a bathroom stall door because pooping, much like studying, drinking, or having intercourse, is something I must do by myself. The lock was archaic at best; it resemebled a tiny little deadbolt complete with tiny little door knob (elliptically shaped; perhaps an inch long by half an inch wide). Some difficulty was had engaging the lock but after a little bit more force was applied, the lock locked. I went about my business and when I had finished, I pulled up my trousers and took my backpack off the hook and onto my shoulder. I made a move for the lock and found it to be firmly in place.

Knowing it to be stubborn from our encounter a few minutes previous, I applied more force. No avail. I applied yet more. Still to no avail. I used my entire strength to try to move the lock. Nothing (or nihil as I would soon be saying). I considered my options: I could wait for someone to come and help me but no one had entered the entire time I was in the restroom so I considered this to be a futile course of action; I could crawl out from under the stall but a quick examination not only revealed the opening to be too small for me to get through but the floor to be totally groooooossssssss. I sat back on the toilet and text messaged Mr. Toad to inform him of my situtation (I have always considered speaking in a restroom to be uncouth and a thing of low social grace).

I recieved no reply.

As the dread of my fate twined itself around me, I began to worry about whether I would be able to retake my Latin quiz, who would feed my dog, pay my rent or tell my friends and family that I starved to death in a bathroom stall (if I did not decide to take my own life before that occured). Everything seemed horrible and hopeless. I expected Beckett's ghost to float up out of the toilet bowl, laughing and saying, "Fuck life!" I resolved myself to change my fate. I put my body weight on the door, pushing it outwards and in effect freeing the bolt from whatever was constricting its movement. The knob turned with no effort.

I proceeded to Latin."