Today at work, I walked into the public men’s room.  It had just been cleaned and the door was propped open.  A chubby, middle-aged man with curly hair stood in front of the far left urinal and a mop bucket was in front of the right urinal, so I took my business to the middle urinal.  Or was about to, until I realized the old guy was masturbating.  At first I thought he was doing the finishing shake, but I noticed he'd been doing it for a while and was also hyperventilating.  He noticed me but was not discouraged.  I went into one of the two vacant stalls that he chose to neglect for some reason that I'll hopefully never understand and I began to piss and laugh.  I work security at this mall thing, so I was probably supposed to do something about it, but it really didn't seem like my place.  I've never had to ask a complete stranger to "please stop masturbating."  I listened to him not wash his hands, but instead get a paper towel and make his way out the door.  Moments later, I was explaining this to a co-worker, and as I described him, I noticed him so I pointed and said "it was that guy, right there."  He instantly rotated his head ninety degrees and locked eyes with me.  I looked promptly away and hung out in the employees only portion of the shopping center for what I decided was long enough for him to leave.  What's sad is that's the second time I've walked in on someone masturbating so far this week.


I moved today.  A friend of mine and I found an ad for an apartment with "1 1/4" bathrooms, which we thought was peculiar. We concluded it must be just a sink and mirror, which it was.  We flipped a coin for that room and my friend got it.  I was sure to piss in the sink first thing, before we even had one box through the door, and made sure that he could see it just so he would know I was alpha-male.  When you get new roommates it's important to pee in their rooms before they pee in yours.



Each summer, my Mother's side of the family rents a beach house not far from here.  I am usually too busy to drive over and explain to extended family why I have no interest in going to college, but this year my schedule was clear and some time away from my seemingly eternal job hunt and house hunt sounded nice.  My family is very kind but to some extent different.  My Aunt is very sweet and has a gentle, almost repressed sounding tone of voice, as though she's speaking out of only the corner of her mouth. Walking down the beach one day, she explained how her husband found his favorite pair of underwear in the wilderness while they were on a hike, and went on to explain that "he doesn't like tighty-whities because he says they strangle his dick."  It was the first she'd met Bec, but even so, on some level she could tell that Bec was wondering what her husbands favorite kind of underwear was and why.  This kind of intuition is hereditary.


I went to a remote swimming location with JW, Bec, and one of her friends yesterday.  The scenery was nice and made me hate most of the people I know from my hometown in Idaho that use the local geography and foliage in a positive context to defend the fact that the town is a total shithole.  Oregon is pretty too; they would know that if they could afford the two tanks of gas required to drive over here with the meager minimum wage in that prehistoric state.   I'm straying from the point.  As JW and I enjoyed the fresh Oregon water, the ladies would normally hold down the land, as their genetic aversion to cold temperatures dictated.  Whenever JW and I got very far away, they were swamped by rednecks that reminded me of the kind of shit-people I would have to deal with in Idaho.  One of them had managed to destroy his teeth with chewing tobacco by the ripe age of early twenties.  Yet another, who was so white that it kind of hurt to look at him in the sun, had "THUG LIFE" tattooed on his abs, displaying a shittier version of the late Tupac Shakur's famous tattoo.  My mind almost committed seppuku when I saw this, and I wondered what inspired a young hillbilly to imitate a culture he had no grasp on for the rest of his life.  Taking into account that the tattoo looked like it had been done with a razor blade and ink from a ballpoint pen, I deduced that it was most likely meth that inspired this.  This crew of backcountry sodomites offered our female company beer and weed without extending the generosity towards yours truly, though it would have been declined because I don't smoke and they were drinking Coors Light.  I would have killed all of them if I had the means to or was psychotic, but as I was denied each of those resources they all left unscathed.  Bec attracts a myriad of admirers and I hate all of them by default.  It's not because they're attracted to her, though, that could be considered flattering, but I just really don't like them.  It makes me wonder if I hate myself on some new plateau.  That was the moral of the story.  My identity crises triggered by the various small-time drug dealers and rodeo rejects that want to throttle my girlfriend.  Yeah, that's all today.  


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