Last night I drug the hubs kicking and screaming through the movie theater to see Eclipse. Whatever. He loved that shit.
We inevitably ended up at Walmart. AGAIN.
Tim has to go to the bathroom, so I go, too. I’m clingy like that, except I went to the little girl’s room. Watch out. I’m about to go off.
Stepping foot inside the bathroom is an assault on the senses, one. Secondly, at 1 a.m. kids should be in bed asleep instead of pulling all the damn paper out of the dispenser by the sinks, twirling around like a ribbon dancer, and using the horror movie set public restroom as their own personal wonderland.
Because I couldn’t see past the sandpaper paper towel mess, I almost walked back out, but come to find out there’s no going back once I’ve shown my bladder the possibility of a toilet. So I picture myself with a machete going through the Congo and make my way to the nearest open stall.