Those previous pictures, showing what I guess is human feces (I didn’t look too closely because yuck) on the Fulton Street subway station elevator reminds me of the historic tale of yore. For most who were around for this it probably remains buried under a heap of time. That heap of shit.

There’s a story about this somewhere on my original website. One day in 7th or 8th grade the principal of our school, a tiny nun, always angry but especially so this day, interrupted homeroom to announce that someone had defecated in one of the bathrooms and “thrown their feces on the walls.”

I don’t think any of us ever saw the fecality but we sure as hell heard about it. As the spinster went into detail about the incident she made certain we all knew she would determine (how?) exactly who did this and mete out appropriate discipline.

We didn’t know if she was privy to some 1980s DNS-type testing that could match a boy’s feces to his identity, but she made it sound like she had that type of stool tool at her disposal. A toolbox for stool. Maybe this analytical suite sold under the brand name Stoolbox?

Whatever her threats might have amounted to I never knew, and as far as I know the identity of the mad shit-thrower was never revealed. I honestly think I know who it was but I’ll never tell, not in public at least.

There was speculation aplenty, as I recall. I didn’t think of it until years later, put the little pieces of shit together in a lightbulb moment of aha. It’s funny how memory is like that. Tiny recollections from grade school, pieced together with observations about an individual made long before and well after the incident, created a perfect profile for a type of nihilistic individual whose appearance to others would have been perfectly buoyant and positive. I think it was he. but I’ll never tell. It doesn’t matter anyway. Any statue of shititations has, like the shit itself, been wiped away.

My main takeaway from this account, as told by the ever-palpitating nun, was Who the hell would take their shit into their hands? I didn’t go detailed with this inquiry. Maybe they used toilet paper or paper towels to protect their palms, securing some level of sanitary expectation should any of us had shaken hands with this individual.

…

It’s a Saturday. Subways were practically rush hour weekday on time. No local-to-express or vice-versa nonsense. But also none of my usual fantasy friends, people I officially know nothing about but have learned through public observation and even just raw chance. All strangers to me today but I barely saw them anyway. With glasses off I see nothing but fuzzy blobs of humanity.

And yet, without the glasses, colors are richer, more natural than seen through any pair of glasses I can remember ever wearing. Color is fake to me, most of the time, only real without corrective lenses.

Such was the moment today when a woman sat next to me, her shoulders exposed and long hair making a glancing stroke against my arm. The flesh looked real, reminding me that this weekend’s possible tryst was called off. Plans had not been made but scenarios seemed fairly elaborate. We’ll see, or maybe we will not.

I managed to catch my favorite professional masturbator in a favorite position today. She is so funny, the way she smiles and the heartiness of her laugh. She gets it. She knows and feels the force of all the wanking going on around the world thanks to her. Miles and miles of cock reaching out for her; Japanese jizz, Swedish schlong, Russian rubbing, Wisconsin wank.

My other favorite on this realm seems to have disappeared. No logins for about a month now. I hope she’s OK, maybe getting some real action. I hope no one scared her off. I never interact with any of these women. I respect them to a point of fear. I’m no blunderbutt or creep but it seems way too easy to stumble and say something they could interpret as offensive or creepy. I guess I defer in memory to the women I’ve known offline, drama-starved and ready to humiliate in return for perceived insults or affronts.

Bar babes. I think they’ve changed with the generations. I don’t mean to sound old, because I don’t feel old, I don’t fuck old, and I don’t do anything old except take shit-filled elevators sometimes when the stairs look like a bore.

But an older school generation would have been wary of a woman at the bar. I can never forget those words of wisdom, shared by an old guy at the after hours dive bar I used to sit at until 10am. Those immortal words were Beware, young man, of a woman who sits alone at the bar. I have never heeded that warning, and the various forms of  emotional and personal carnage left behind is a testament to that occasional recklessness.

He may have had a point in certain contexts. I’d be at some bars where a woman sat down alone and the buzzards went to work immediately, like moths to the proverbial flame. I’ve seen owners of bars tell women that he’s there for them if the creeps come swarming.

These days, though, I don’t know. I see millennial bars where women and men alike sit alone, drawing into their fucking adult coloring books and playing solitaire.

But who am I to speak of bar culture anymore? I barely set foot in those spaces and do not miss them.There is one space I’ve been giving a try. The bartender seems likeable. He doesn’t remember my name but since I only stop in once a month I don’t except him to. He does remember the IPA without me asking for it.

…

The landlord volunteered to fix my clogged bathroom sink. This was basically out of nowhere. I don’t know if he had reason to enter my apartment and make this discovery, or if it was revealed to him that adjacent bathrooms upstairs or downstairs were similarly affected.

Whatever the case I further suggested that the bathroom door needs a doorknob, after the old one broke off. He ignored that, with what I detected was a perceptible chuckle. His voluntary snaking of the bathroom sink was not intended to be a starter project, which might also include replacing the kitchen floor and painting the ceilings. No way. Not for the rent I pay.

So still no doorknob, which makes shitting a little awkward when someone else is present. I seal the door shut with my foot and cover the doorknob opening with my hand. It’s very classy but, for  whatever kinks I may have explored with the doctor woman last year I drew the line at anything to do with shit. i later learned this is a rubicon shared by many. Or rather an anti-rubicon. What is the opposite of that, anway? When you reach what feels like a point of no return but you do, in fact, return?