The urinal company's name burned into my mind as my body held me captive in the stall. A blue falcon pressed into the plastic drain guard mocked me as I alternated between pressure and relaxing. The ever-changing carousel of shoes in the neighboring stall reminded me I wasted every dry second.

I pushed on my bladder in vain, closer to blowing a hole through my couch than getting out of this bathroom in the next five minutes. I refused to lift my head as the shoes next to me changed again. Staring into the white porcelain, I wondered if this is the shame that older men feel. And if it is, I promise not to laugh in the future. Here I am at thirty-one, the proud owner of the newest dam in the country. I could block off Niagara falls with this thing.

Internally there's a security squad of mini-me's who are screaming in terror at the rising pressure. My body has become the Chernobyl reactor, and there's no exit for the release. They are crying. One call's their wife to tell them they love them. Another stares at their friendship bracelet and wonders why the fuck their friend thought teal was a good color.

A pessimistic sweat starts to bloom under my arms, showing that my body isn't the jealous mistress it claims to be. The excess moisture decided it had to escape through any available orifice.

Finally, an uneasy neon silence filled the ash-tiled room. I was alone with punch bowl belly and conscious illusions as time lost meaning. The first drops fall like the tears of Mary seeing Christ on the cross. I lift my arms, unleashing an unholy torrent that even Moses couldn't have parted. In other words, I pissed so hard I knocked the plaster off the wall.