Imagine an overly warm, dank room with no ventilation. As you enter the gray room, you feel the air sit on your skin, and though you don't like it, the word "moist" fills your head. You close your eyes against the strangely bright florescent lights and listen to their soft buzz accompanied by peculiar sounds of quickly streaming water, the sound of rocks being dropped into pools of water, and the occasional deep sigh.
In this stiflingly muggy room, you find yourself lounging on an ancient vinyl chaise, surfing the web with your shoes off and feet firmly planted on the clammy gray floor in front of you. Now imagine stretching out for a nap on that sticky black chaise. As you settle in, positioning yourself with your face towards the wall - leaving the top of your t-shaped underwear hanging out of your jeans - your nose suddenly alerts you to the unmistakable fact that you are napping in a busy bathroom frequented by stressed out women.
Such conditions would seem to preclude the desire for a nap or leisurely web surfing, but a young lady has taken up just such a routine on Monday and Wednesdays, and I (and all the women who’ve encountered her) find her blasé attitude about the noble pursuit of education in a room where strangers rush to relinquish their wastes particularly bothersome. The lip-curling distaste for the chosen location of her bare-footed studies is compounded when one considers the lounge down the hall fully equipped with couches and a dearth of women defecating.
She has indeed taken the title of "restroom" literally.
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