I want to think it all started when your narrator was but a young child.

I was the second born, but the first son. Fixing bayonet, I sprung from my fetal foxhole, charging the breach. It would not be a long battle as I willed myself out of the womb, and into a home. The father would be a young, thin, unibrow bestowed Iranian immigrant; that was “Sergeant Mo.” Sergeant Mo (Mo was short for Mohammed, for those not versed in names of immigrant refugees wishing to blend and assimilate into a less than welcoming western culture) was a United States Marine. This short, hairy, temperamental Marine had a young lily-white Irish wife. The white Irish would be my mother. They lived, what I would assume to be a typical Camp Lejeune NCO domestic partnership. It was a fucking nightmare.

Sergeant Mo abandoned his post when I was four. Too young to remember much of anything from my time in “The Corps.” But, for the sake of this writing, I will assume the latrine is where we would cower from incoming enemy fire, or friendly fire? Whichever.

The bathroom must have been a place of refuge. Toilets offer excellent cover for toddlers. Tubs a perfect trench, fiberglass-reinforced polyester concealed your young author as he cowered, crawling belly down beneath the bulkhead.

The violence was verbal, never physical. Not that it mattered as I was safe in the four-walled porcelain sanctuary. Eventually, White-Irish would boldly retreat from on-base housing and the East Coast. Another casualty in the war. The family would head back to Texas. Sergeant Mo would board a vessel bound for New York. Sailing his “Meritorious Mast” North, up to the Atlantic.

Declared unfit for service and diagnosed with Crohn’s, I lay many a night on that SouthEast Texas off-white, tile floor. Sickness kept me quarantined in the powder room. I entertained myself by pitting plastic Stone Cold Steve Austin against impossible odds. The Texas Rattler could topple any GI Joe, Stone Cold Stun Stretch Armstrong himself, and stomp a mud hole in any Transformer. Autobot or Decepticon, Austin 3:16 was not prejudiced to open up a can at any time while in the can.

On our journey thus far, we have seen how one room can provide comfort and entertainment, along with its typical, necessary, everyday function. How else could more time be allocated in a bathroom? Puberty. Shouldn’t be hard to imagine why a young man would frequent this room of isolation. I’ll leave that one at that.

The crapper is a famous citadel of solitude. Traditionally, the entrance and exit share a natural causeway, which can become a bulwark. Shielding you from: a nagging spouse, a crying child, a boss at work rarely will disturb this private place. Sometimes you need a place to think and not be distracted by the complications of your life. Maybe you require a concealed counter to layout a full, acetone tasting, white powdery substance. Whatever the case, it’s a place people congregate.

If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably wondering what the fuck I am talking about here? Fair. It’s not about how much I enjoy bathrooms. I’m not writing this from the comforts of a bathroom. I’m laying on a loveseat. Not a couch. We have two loveseats. I am too tall for both. My legs overhang. It’s not comfortable. Why then am I here? Instead of a comfy, king-sized bed?

“Is it necessary you shit for 30 minutes.”

That text is a text received from my beautiful girlfriend. After using the facilities, shampooing and then conditioning, soaping while conditioner sets in, soap blinding my left eye, rinsing everything off, all while learning how to cook “jerk chicken” on YouTube, drying followed by dressing, lastly brushing my teeth then hair.

Since I live in the bathroom, here is the synopsis of my life spent there. Thanks for reading it.

If you have a stance to take or a side to pick in the war of the sexes, please chime in. If you liked it, share it. If you hated it, share it!

And know, if you did hate this thought-provoking piece, I’d be suffering on this loveseat before moving to the floor. I am sleeping a death like dreamless sleep on the carpet. Waking at 4:30 AM to a stiff neck and tight back.

And still being an asshole.

Published by tamanollahi

Writer at thelastindividual.com come check us out!

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