I was here.

I find having a blog is like writing my number on a public toilet bathroom wall and hoping somebody calls me. What if nobody ever calls? Does anybody ever call those numbers? And what kind of freaky bastard will call?

Having a blog is like checking my messages to see if someone called me about a job. I questioned if someone believed my resume of lies. Will they give me money? And for how long?

Having a blog is like checking my comment page at five in the morning drunk to see if anyone likes me. It’s like Valentine’s day back in elementary. Usuallly the comments I get are like “you need to be institutionalized” or “please take you meds” or “this is Bank of America and we’re contacting you about a debt, please call us.” Those damn debt collectors are relentless. Don’t they get it by now, I’m never paying them.

So I was thinking as I posted comments on people pages I didn’t know, why people write on gas station bathroom walls in middle of Nowhere, Texas with a ballpoint pen, “I was here.” Did the person forget? And who carries the specific permanent marker for such graffiti: maybe a John Doe that’s afraid no one will miss him if he’s abducted by aliens. I think it’s because people just like to see themselves. Sometimes I comment on certain blogs just to see if that person will post it. They usually don’t.

The need to say “I was here” is as old as slavery. I was trapped on a toilet in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. I had some bad tuna and it desperately wanted out. On the toilet, I was in vertical birthing position so that my booty hole could aim correctly. And in that awkward Yoga move between explosive convulsions, my eyes wondered especially focus on the cracks of the bathroom stale hoping nobody came in like a relative or ex-lover or current lover or the newspaper or news team with cameras. As I cautiously watch the bathroom door, I couldn’t help but read the messages. Somebody was looking for a dick sucking around 5 in the evening on Sunday and left their phone number. Somebody didn’t like a certain gang. Somebody wanted to get fucked with an umbrella. And then it’s that ubiquitous, “I was here, 6-17-1997.” You suddenly feel not so alone that somebody was there in the same position. I just wanted the diarrhea to be over and try to get away with it

As I tiptoed out of the men’s bathroom hoping no one will follow me because it would dangerous. The stench I left behind like an aborted baby was strong enough that I was afraid it might be a misdemeanor. They got all kind of crazy laws in Texas.

A man walked in the bathroom right after me. He yelled at me “Man you need to get some fucking help!” I smiled coyly and said that wasn't. I ran for the nearest exit hoping to never see that bastard again.