Dear Outdoor Gas Station Bathroom


Dear Outdoor Gas Station Bathroom-

I don’t feel like many people write you letters. You probably stopped checking your mailbox years ago. Maybe you’ve got the junk mail blues. I know you haven’t paid your bills. So, I thought I would acknowledge your existence because you have saved me from crapping my pants on numerous occasions. Although, in hindsight, maybe it would have been better to just shit my pants.

That was a low blow. I’m sorry.

To be honest, you’re really a weak bladdered or irritable bowel diseased person’s nightmare. It’s not your fault. Despite the large obnoxious wooden key that a person must ironically request from the apathetic or pissed off cashier to gain access to you, you’re not all that. You’re pretty sad. And disappointing and disgusting on multiple levels. Why you require a gigantic key has always baffled my mind.

It’s not your fault.

Some bathrooms are born into privilege, you know, being constructed inside of an establishment. Not you. You’re not quite a Johnny on the Spot, you never get to adventure to festivals or construction sites. You’re stuck behind that creepy gas station. You’re cold, stinky, and “out back.” But not like Australia. Toilet paper readily flees from your hostile living conditions. Has poor scared soap ever set foot into your locked chambers? I don’t think so. Your toilet silently cries out at your shit-smeared walls. Because it won’t flush.

Who does this? What kind of monster would smear shit on the walls of a gated community of sorts bathroom. (See that? I was trying to build you up) It makes me wonder what bacteria clings to the ridiculous key or is it a self-defense club to be used on the walk of shame as its returned to the cashier who probably wears a diaper most shifts or drinks nothing and is sworn into employment, “I solemnly swear to never, ever clean or walk inside the outdoor gas station bathroom.” And….You’re hired.

I feel like if you could break free and escape, maybe even make it to some shady park, you would be much happier. More fulfilled by the routine drug deal or flasher or occasional sound of children’s laughter. You’re the last resort. And that can’t feel good.

I will probably keep on using you on road trips. In desperate times. Until you go extinct.

Hang in there.


Amelia (the girl with quads of steel that holds her breath and ungracefully kicks your flusher and door before dramatically squeezing out to fresh air)

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