This weekend, Tom and I went to an antiques store. It was huge – old stuff as far as the eye could see. I don’t like to look at old stuff with a full bladder so I sought out the bathroom. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted with this cheery message:
“OH YEAH, just watch me flush the toilet after my use,” I thought to myself. What can I say, I’ve always been a bit of a rebel.
There were two stalls. In one stall some square had dutifully done what THE MAN told her to do – not flush. I rolled my eyes at such blind compliance to the arbitrary rules of antiques store society.
I used the other stall, and with the defiance of a thousand James Deans and Marlon Brandos, I flushed that toilet.
I washed my hands thoroughly, held my head high and swaggered out of the bathroom, expecting to be dragged away by the antique store authorities. But, no one was there. I had gotten away with it! What a rush!
People, you gotta live by your own rules if you really want to live.
I didn’t write on the walls though, that would be rude.