Rambling Thoughts From the 8th Floor Bathroom

By Marcus Pan

Chain Border

After much cajoling for "a new rant" (my recent attack of Miss Manners not being enough for some people) I have decided to revisit the bathroom. This time we take our ramblings to the 7th floor. There was a time when we were bathroomless, wandering bladders in search of a place to exercise our right...no, wait, our privilege, we covered this before...to pee. And huzzah, Trinity Real Estate has found it within their hearts (and digestive tracts, presumably) to provide us with that place of privileges. And so now locked to all those without the secret numbers of admission, lies our new bathroom.

Clean, white, and...what's this upon the wall? Within WEEKS – marred by the ink of doltishness! On the eighth floor our privilege-releasing eyes have been treated to such truths. But here, on the seventh floor, we are instead treated to the marring of our room with such witless anecdotes as: "Fuck you...Me."

First one must wonder – just who are we fucking? Is this a heedless request to BE fucked? Or is this a statement – the purveyor of such truths currently BEING fucked by one thing or another. Now we must ask, are they asking for carnal knowledge here? The instinctual fucking of the flesh? Or is this instead a statement of fucking of a more social or conspirational kind, i.e. “That company just fucked me with a brick sideways!” Or was this meant as originally an insult, “Fuck you!” and then later reconditioned into the conspirational statement with the added “Me!” at the end? Or a pleading from some virgin who, again, seeks that carnal knowledge? Is the “Fuck me!” more of a request then? The possibilities are truly limitless. But before we ramble into the realm of meaning in such a bland statement, let’s instead go elsewhere.

Is that a school bell I hear? No, wait, elementary schools don't have bells. That's in higher grades, isn't it?

Let's stop and think about this a moment. First we must digress - when I was a child (and yes, I was one once, however intellectually advanced of course ;]), I once created a "Book Of Curses." I remember it well. It was the first editing attempt of my young career. I still have it. (No, you can't see it.) But let us realize - I was, hmm, 8 at the time? Now when you consider this is an office building of sorts, how many single-digit agers are running around? Not many. So when you figure the thrill of writing the words "fuck you" ceased for me around 8 or 9, then what type of adult (in physical terms only, I'm sure) would find the thrill of writing "fuck you" on a bathroom wall for us to feast our eyes on as we let loose our privileged streams?

Precisely what kind of individual finds this kind of thrill? Imagine the amount of drugs and alcohol it would take to make the rest of us giggle in Beavis 'N Butthead style over the word "fuck." I write the word "fuck" quite a bit sometimes - but that happens to be in a magazine that a few thousand are going to read before it gets painted over.

I find it boggling to even ponder the levels of moronicness that would have sloughed this missive upon my bathroom wall.

I return you to your regularly scheduled workday.

The above essay is an excerpt from the Journal of Marcus Pan Part Six. This was in entry 724, dated May 26, 2000 @ 1:50PM.

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