I do not subscribe to the “open-door” policy, as it pertains to the subject of happy couples being privy to each other’s revolting goings-on in the bathroom. Some couples believe that being perched on the porcelain convenience, carving hideous intestinal sculpture, while the other one watches, is a symbol of some sort of higher level of comfort, candidness, or sincerity.
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It’s as if, in observing their significant other in such a manner, his or her feet propped up on two phone books for maximum expulsion velocity, one would be offering up some sort of proof of their undying, perpetual, and eternal love for one another.
Not I. I have installed big burglar bars on my bathroom door because I enjoy a little private moment when I feel the urge to purge. I believe that there should be some aspects that, no matter how long you’ve loved someone, should remain undisclosed and confidential. There should always be some facets of your life that remain a mystery.
For, I’d rather not see the look of grim determination on my lover’s face, as she sets her teeth into a painful grimace, and begins to launch.
I’d rather she, not hear the onslaught of my barrage, as my lower intestine shudders one free.
If I were married, we’d share each morning together…we’d share breakfast…our dinners…we’d take off on vacations…we’d take long walks. Occasionally, she’d watch me select a tie from the rack in my closet. But that’s it.
I don’t want her to hear the creaking of my bomb-bay doors, as fetid cargo makes its way past repugnant pimples, only to land with a greasy SLAP on the bottom of the low-water-usage bowl.
I don’t want her hearing me muttering profanities under my breath, as I hit the flush lever, time and time again, for the disobedient dry-docked log that refuses to curl around the u-bend at the rear of the commode. I’d rather not hear her as she, likewise, lets fly a bowel salvo of stuffed squid from the glorious buffet she partaked in, the day before.
I would recommend that all couples, proceeding through their life together, be it temporary or ‘til death do them part, savor this one, tiny morsel of personal intimacy that remains. Yes…share each other’s most personal secrets…experience each other as you’ve never experienced anyone who has come before…love each other unconditionally and accept each other at your absolute worst…but shed not, that last, residual fragment of your dignity.
In fact, in my mind…because I refuse to witness the procedure…I can only assume that it never happens! I REJECT the image of it so utterly and completely, that I can only suppose that instead of even needing to use the toilet, my girlfriends have somehow perfected some process of osmosis, whereby their body heat merely causes a dissipation of its wastes into the atmosphere, in the form of easily-recyclable, odorless, gaseous deposits.
So I can only conclude that my girlfriends do not go to the bathroom. There are some things that I just don’t want to picture, and therefore, I refuse to.