full disclosure

I am a creature that thrives on safety, on routine, on coziness. Maybe I don’t really thrive on those things, but I have to have a regular infusion of them to maintain a sense of well-being and happiness. True, I like to sky dive, stick needles and ink into my skin, profane verbally, hold my boyfriend’s hand out in public (we got yelled out by two guys the other night, calling us faggots [it’s true, we are {still, it’s rude}]), and at times be provocative for the sake of being provocative. Safety enables me to do these more ‘edgy’ activities. There are a few select things that make me feel truly safe and truly cozy. One of them is blogging at my coffee shop while drinking a hot non-coffeenated drink. Another is curling up with Dunkyn and Dolan and falling asleep to Friends or Will & Grace. Yet another is cooking in my own home (it is different if I cook somewhere else). Even sitting by a heater or using one of those automatic hand dryers ushers in such emotions in me—let’s not look too deeply at that. I am sure Jerry Falwell (just ‘cuz he’s dead doesn’t mean I can’t say the same things about him that I said before [provocative for provocative’s sake {even though I mean it}]) would say that I am just anticipating the warmth of the fires of Hell.
The focus of our little discussion today, is one other area that brings me that wonderful sense of safety, warmth, contentment, and peace. This place may seem a little strange. Not sure. It’s the bathroom. Not the big bathrooms with stalls and urinals, etc, but the individual ones, with locks on their doors. I don’t even need to use the facilities for what they were created for, just simply being there is enough. At my internship, I looked forward to being able to go the restroom a couple times a day. They had these two little restrooms for staff. They were decorated with elaborate, refined décor from Wal-Mart. Tacky as fuck (there’s that pointless verbal profanity I warned you about). Still, I would walk in, shut the door behind me, and all the weight on my shoulders would flee as I locked the door. I would simply sit in there for five minutes or so, playing a game on my phone, texting, or casually breathing (as opposed to formally breathing [?]). Nothing elaborate or deep. It was always with a tinge of melancholy that I would turn the door handle and emerge back into the world. I wanted to spend the entire day there.
Even when I am in my own home, by myself, I look forward to my times in the restroom. It is small and painted in warm earthy orangey/reddish-brownish hues. I lock both doors. Of course Dunkyn and Dolan rush in when they see me enter. They immediately lie down in their favorite spots in the tiny room and fall asleep. They are the only living things that can enhance my bathroom experience. Boyfriends, don’t even try to enter this private world. Even bathing has the same effect. There is a line from a Pink song where she is talking to her boyfriend that she loves, that says (get ready, more cussing in your near future), “No you can’t jump into my shower, all I ask for is one fucking hour.” See, even rich and famous stars like their bathroom time.
I think that line may sum up why I feel so safe there. It is the only place in the world where you can completely be yourself. It is the sacred temple of worship to yourself. Yes, I know, it is where you shit. ‘Porcelain throne’ and all, blah, blah, blah… Well, now that you bring it up, maybe that is another reason it is such a glorious place. Where else is not only ok, but expected for you to let all your shit out in the open.
One day, when I am rich, I will have wonderfully small bathroom with in-floor heating, built in space heater, and an automatic hand dryer. Ah, that will be wonderful. Can’t wait. That will be the last the world will ever see or hear from me. Well, I might send text messages, as long as I didn’t forget my phone when I went in.