It happened once more. I’m not saying it happened to me a lot, though. If it did, I would have probably just killed myself because someone up there had it out for me anyway. It had, however, happened to me before.

This particular time I was in a bathroom in McDonald’s. Usually, I make it a point not to use public bathrooms. They’re disgusting. There’s always toilet paper all over the floor and nine times out of ten they’re out of soap. Plus, my friend Nancy told me that some places have security cameras in them so they can video tape whether or not they’re employees wash their hands, and taping patrons use the rest room is just an added bonus.

This time, like the others, was an emergency, though. Greg and I were driving down to Louisiana to see that stupid brother of his. I’m sorry, but Patrick could not have graduated from the first grade. Last time I was there, he asked me if I had a stick up my butt. I told him that I didn’t see one but he was welcome to check. Gregory thought it was hilarious, especially when I said Patrick was blind for seeing one.

Anyway, we were driving down and I had to go. Greg had convinced me to try a strawberry smoothie from Panera Bread, because “they’re absolutely delicious, honey!” I told him that liquids go through me faster than money in the pocket of a shopaholic, but he didn’t listen. He just went on and on about how the smoothie just soothed your throat and chilled your stomach, though, personally, that sounds disgusting. I got one to shut him up.

Now, I usually map out the entire route and make sure I have a friend every couple of hours where I can stop and use the bathroom. However, Greg just decides to up and go off my route. Don’t worry, though. He got a piece of my mind already.

He went off route, by the way, to see some sort of dumb memorial for someone or another. He said something about his grandpa and Vietnam, but I didn’t care. Because of his little escapade, I was going to have go in a public bathroom. Where people videotape you peeing!

“Gregory, don’t think you are off the hook for this one,” I told him as he pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot. His face was stone, though, with little emotion. He wouldn’t look at me. Probably afraid if he did he’d break his stone face with a flood of tears.

“When I get back, you will be getting the silent treatment,” I proclaimed dramatically, throwing myself out of the car and onto the pavement. I landed in a large puddle of dirty water. “Gregory!”

He said nothing, and I stormed away.

Entering the disgusting restaurant—or, rather, barn house—I glanced around for a manager, or at least someone with authority. Unfortunately, kids swarmed in the kitchen with no adult in sight.

I strutted up to the register and asked, not making eye contact due to the fact that gives the person you are talking to a false sense of equality, “Where is the manager?”

“Actually, ma’am, I am.” I ventured a look at this supposed manager, but I was appalled. Braces? Greasy hair? Pimply face? That is what they look for in manager material? Puh-lease. I could’ve found a better manager in a kindergarten class.

“Really?” I asked, back to looking at a spot above his head. I snickered. “Okay.”

“Do you need something?” the boy asked, getting a little defensive.

“A bathroom.”

“They aren’t public, ma’am. You have to buy something,” the “manager” told me. I scoffed. He was just making up little lies because he was offended that I treated him like a slob. Well, I’m sorry that you are one, “manager.”

“Fine. Give me a glass of water.”

“That’s free.”

“I ordered, now supply. Or do I need to report you?”

“No, ma’am,” Pimple-face said, hurrying to get water. I saw him yell at a few subordinates, and I knew it was just to show-off and pretend he had power. He had nothing.

He returned with a glass of water.

“Oh. Forty-nine seconds. Really? That’s fast service?” I asked. I shook my head and grabbed the water. “It’s not, by the way. That’s slow service.”

Greasy-hair just stared at me, face as stone as Greg’s. In fact, they had similar blank expressions. I smiled at him and pulled a few pennies from my pocket. I picked one up and handed it to Braces.

“Here’s your tip. I think it’s sufficient.”

Feeling satisfied for a job well down, I poured the water in the trash and headed off to the bathroom in the back of the barn house.

Opening the door, I slowly made my way in, stepping around the piles of germs. Normal people don’t see it, but I have over 20/20 vision, which means I can see things like germs. And they were everywhere.

I cursed Greg as I pushed open the stall door. Gagging, I tried the next stall. This one was cleaner—that’s not right. It was less dirty, but still completely filthy.

Entering the stall, I locked the door after me. I’ll spare you the details from the next fifteen seconds and skip to where tragedy struck.

Relieved, I went from some toilet paper only to find it was empty. No toilet paper. I was not about to drip-dry. That’s the most disgusting thing a girl can do, and I refuse to. I cleared my throat.

“Toilet paper,” I ordered, staring at the ceiling. “Toilet paper, now. Why do you always do this to me?”

“Um, excuse me?” a voice said. A small voice. I bet it belonged to a small person who let people walk all over them and always did big “favors” for people.

“What?”

“Um. I couldn’t help but overhear—er. Do you need toilet paper?”

“No. I was just screaming toilet paper because I think it is the most inventive combination of words ever,” I said, scoffing. “Of course I need toilet paper!”

“Okay.” A hand appeared under the stall and I snatched up the toilet paper. I laughed at the small amount of tissue.

“Really? If I wanted to get pee all over my hands I wouldn’t have asked for toilet paper,” I snapped, throwing the paper back over the stall at the small, small woman.

“Well, I didn’t know how much you used,” the small voice said quietly.

“Oh, do you use that much? Because that’s disgusting. Remind me to never shake your hand.”

“You don’t even know me-”

“I don’t have to.”

“I-”

“Give me my toilet paper and we can stop talking.”

“No.”

“Excuse me? You small woman, give me toilet paper this instant!” I screamed, banging my knees against the sides of the stall. “Give me the toilet paper! Now!”

“No.”

She flushed her toilet, but her feet remained in the stall. I took my fist and pounded them against our adjoined wall, screaming bloody murder. The woman said nothing.

“TOILET PAPER!”

“Say please.”

“Never. Not to you, at least,” I snapped, continuing to bang on the wall and flush the toilet. “You are small. You are anxious and afraid. You are repulsive and your voice makes me sick.”

“No toilet paper, then.”

I tell you proudly that I drip-dried for five minutes before giving in. Again, I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

“Please.”

“What was that?”

“I said please.”

The stall next door opened and suddenly my stall was kicked opened. I pulled my knees up, giving her a rather unpleasant image that she deserved. I stared in shock.

It was no woman—it was a girl! Ten, at most. She held a roll of toilet paper in her hand and a wicked smile on her face.

“Are you going to treat people like that again?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, ma’am.”

She smiled at me and tossed the roll to me before turning on her heel and leaving. I finished my business and left the stall. After discovering there was no soap, I stared at the prime location for where I knew a camera had to be and swore at it.

I left the bathroom and, as I was leaving, I saw Pimple-face again. I glared at him, stating, “You’re bathrooms are disgusting. Go wash your face.”

I stormed out of the barn house and back to Greg’s car. He was waiting, the heat on full blast. I switched it off and asked, “How many times have I told you that burns gas? Never again, Gregory! Never again!”

Greg sighed and pulled out of the spot.

“And next time, I will not have a smoothie. And you will not go off route! Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I smiled smugly to myself, and opened my window to let out all of Gregory’s precious heat.