Once upon a time, this journal had A Point. I wrote essays. Fully-developed entries about a linear topic or storyline. My posts had beginnings, middles and ends. I could do that thing where you conclude with a clever play on your first sentence or post title. I would even proofread sometimes. I could turn the world on with my smile.
In other words, A Point.
Will we ever see those days again?
Yes! I know it! I promise!
But not today. And probably not tomorrow either. Actually, now that I think about it, you should probably just forget I said anything.
See? Smaller today. Because I am no longer screaming it. Just repeating it softly to myself over and over and rocking slightly.
The big metal toilet paper/seat cover/wastebasket thing in Stall #4 in the ladies’ room is busted, just like the one in Stall #2. It kind of hangs open and makes getting paper off the roll really hard.
I never cared about Stall #2. Other people complained bitterly when the Stall Service Station broke and I was all, “Use another stall and shut up. Also, I don’t want to know which toilet you sit on.”
But now! I understand! Stall #4 was mine! It was a good location, was always well-stocked and had an interesting drain on the floor to look at and wonder if this bathroom ever used to be a locker room of some kind and then maybe imagine some kind of office women’s prison film or something.
Stall #1 is right next to the entrance of the bathroom, plus has a gap in the door that you can totally see through. Stall #3 is the favorite stall of the notorious toilet seat cover taker-and-putter-backer. Stall #5 is the handicapped stall and it’s just too big to feel comfortable in.
I am extremely distraught. Perhaps I shall just hold it all day.
While we’re on the subject of bathrooms, and before y’all totally leave in disgust because I am STILL on the subject of bathrooms, let me just tell you about the ladies’ room at my office.
It has a combination lock.
You have to punch four numbers in before you can open the door. FOUR. And it’s really low and hard to see. Originally, the combination was something absurd, like 7351. This caused such an uproar that it was changed to something easier. (Which I would totally tell you because I think it’d be hilarious to have people coming to my office and already know the secret bathroom door code, but my office takes Restroom Security very seriously, and I would get fired.)
The men’s room? No lock. No security. The men of my company? Can apparently take care of themselves better than us weak, delicate little vagina flowers.
Allegedly, we have the lock because we had a Restroom Security Breach at our old building. Some dude walked in, went into the ladies’ room and hid in a stall all day. He never talked or touched anyone. He just apparently got off on listening to women pee. Eventually, someone saw his shoes and he was discovered.
That could just be one of those old publishing company urban legends though.
Number of special reports Amy has written this week: 7
Number of bitter, bitter tears Amy has wept in the process: 700
Number of drinks Amy will have tonight to celebrate: 7, because it’s only fitting
THE SORT OF SENTENCE THAT MAKES ME DIE A LITTLE INSIDE WHEN I WRITE IT:
These are high-quality growth stocks at value-stock prices!
So according to the Post-It Notes in my purse, I rode the Metro recently. And I was going to do a post about it. I don’t think I’m going to do a post about it.
But here are my notes for the entry I was going to write, but am now not:
There’s nothing like riding the Metro to trigger a full-blown case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I feel itchy and dirty now.
That woman over there hasn’t snipped the white stitches holding her jacket pleat together.
That guy’s t-shirt tag is sticking out. And he has neck acne.
That guy’s low battery light on his laptop is flashing. Turn off! TURN OFF!
Someone “proofread” that anti-drug poster near the door. Except that they incorrectly changed “affect” to “effect” and “hypocritical” to “hypercritical” and inserted an unnecessary semicolon. I am dying to take my red pen to it. STET!
STET STET STET!
Dear god. Why do I even have a red pen with me right now?
Several Post-Its later, I wrote this:
“I seriously thought my eyeballs might already be on the floor. Am such a whore.”
I have no idea when I wrote that or why my eyeballs were on the floor. Ew. But props for rhyming!
FUN WITH OUT-OF-CONTEXT IM:
amalah: let’s run away and be mimes
rudecactus: hey amy...will you be mime?
Odds of Amy winning a Diarist Award, ever: negative 3 plillion percent (%)