The Hazards of Being a Writer

Last Saturday morning, I had a great writing session– one of those magic bouts in which the muse of Quality embraces the muse of Quantity and they dance for hours to the music of my fingers tapping upon my keyboard.

 
As I stood, after several creatively fulfilling hours, basking in the glow of my self-confidence, glimmering with the metaphorical sweat from chasing the heck out of my dreams, I realized I had to pee.

 
Like a right now pee. Urgent. So urgent, urgent, emergency. A pee that meant if the chick restroom was occupied; I’d barge into the dude’s. No qualms. No fucks.

 
No need to swear because the chick’s restroom was free for the taking. I swung in, graceful and shrill as a sea gull. Shut the door, latching both locks in record time and two step towards my goal before I realized the automatic lights didn’t turn on.

 
I waved my arms like the darling seagull I was. Darkness. I jazz-handed the light sensor. Darkness all around. I pushed anything that felt like a button on the light sensor. And the darkness said, “It’s not all in your head.”

 
Okay. Gonna have to pee elsewhere. To that plan, my bladder said “NO WE ARE COMMITTED TO PEEING HERE NOW.” I was like, “But, can’t see the toilet.” And my bladder was all, “You got about ¾ of a second to figure it out. Otherwise you’re going to wish you weren’t wearing flip flops.”

 
So. I navigated by touch. In a public bathroom. Haunted by the wraithprints of all the other touchers before me, my hand sliding through rivulets of moist, fudgy-soft bathroom wall sap. Plagued by the notion that maybe I hadn’t fully locked the door and maybe the lights are somehow trigged by the lock, and what if someone walks in while I’m sitting here, peeing in the dark.

 
Reader, I peed for a millennia. And after those thousand years, my laboring was still not complete. A last task: washing my hands. The sink, lost in the black, whispered, “Even if you find me, you’ll never find the soap dispenser. And the walls, the walls you caressed so desperately are fetid. Viscous! Teeming with eldritch creatures that even Cthulhu dares not name. And you will need to touch them yet again to find your way out!”

 
Finding the soap dispenser proved an easier task than the sink had presaged. The sole pleasant wisp within the dark’s wretched miasma was easy to track. And the tiny crack of light that beckoned from the bottom of the door provided all that I needed to touchlessly take my leave.

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