Yesterday, I was in some piss-soaked public bathroom—one of those places that smells like regret and bleach—draining my soul into a urinal. Mid-stream, I saw this mark inside the bowl. A stain, I thought.
A target. So, like any idiot man with a half-functioning lizard brain, I aimed straight at it. Laser focus. A full-bladder assault.
But then it hit me.
That wasn’t a stain.
It was designed.
Some sick bastard had embedded a fake stain into the porcelain
—a little black dot, engineered for guys like me to aim at. A psychological toilet trick. They got me. Trained me like a goddamn lab rat with a dick.
And for a brief second, I felt betrayed. Like the universe had played me for a fool. Gave me the illusion of choice, of rebellion, when all I did was exactly what they wanted.
I got angry.
I wanted to go rogue—pee all over the urinal, the wall, the floor—make Jackson Pollock proud. But it was too late. I had nothing left in the tank. The rebellion had run dry.
So on my way out, I left the sink running. Just a petty middle finger to the system.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
And maybe that’s all we ever get.
A little wasted water.
A little piss on porcelain.
And the quiet dignity of knowing we almost broke free.
