I have three prominent scars that I've gotten from public johns. God forbid I injure myself in the comfort of my own watercloset, eh?
"Scar Wars: A New Poop" - The first one was sustained in college. I usually don't like doing number twos in public restrooms for various reasons, but I was desperate that fine spring day and I had no other opportunity to go between classes because home was an hour drive away--without traffic. So, bemoaning my lack of foresight, I ducked into a campus stall and got out the ye ol' flip phone to text a friend when--EL BLAMO! The door made contact with my face. What? How?! Seems a robustly built woman had consumed some shellfish against the wishes of her geriatric nurse and was trying to get into the first stall before she soiled herself... and busted the lock in her haste. The door knocked the sense out of me, but I managed a startled, "Ya mind?!" before shoving the door back closed. The woman took the adjacent stall with little more than a muttered apology, pooed her brains out, and escaped. I waited until she'd left to make my own egress. By then I had a nice bruise across my cheekbone and a cut to go along with it. Later on, my professor pulled me aside after class to ask if I was in a healthy partnership or if I needed any help. I was too embarrassed to admit I'd gotten smacked while taking a dump, so I made up some story about getting mugged... which went over about as well as one would suspect.
"Scar Wars: The WC Strikes Back" - Fast forward a couple years and I found myself in basic training. I was on latrine duty (pun entirely intended) and fitting new rolls into the toilet paper dispensers when my left hand got stuck in the LAST godforsaken dispenser. I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my flight, so I deigned to figure out how to undo my stuck-ness without help... by jerking my hand out as hard as I could. The dispenser gouged and stole a 1×2 inch spread off the back of my hand and blood spurted everywhere! I panicked. I put my mouth over the gouge and went about replacing the red splashed roll without further incident. My mind was already sort of fried from the day's morning activities, so instead of mentioning anything, I just wrapped it in tissue paper and forgot about it--intent on dealing with it at lights out, if at all. Sure. My Instructor found the trail of blood drips before that ever happened and I was sent to Medical for treatment. Under the influence of alcohol, I usually tell people the scar is from playing Knives in prison. For the record, I've never been to prison. Pretty sure you can't legally have knives in prison... maybe shivs? Anyway.
"Scar Wars: Return of the Runs" - The third unfortunate scarring I've received in conjunction with being in a public toilet happened while I was in technical school in Texas. Parkour was pretty popular among the students, but I thought they were all a bunch of neckbeard idiots. Then one day I thought, "Well, what's all the fuss?" and decided to educate myself about their "culture"... so that I could talk smack more effectively--that's what I told myself at any rate. I joined one of their crews and we did a bit of running around and jumping. It was all pretty tame stuff. Park benches, wall flips, tree climbs: your standard amateur fair. Anyhow, it was getting dark and with no lightbelts on, we were prime targets for the security forces on base. What with our hoodies and vape pens and Hip-hop beat boxes, we looked like a little gaggle of hooligans up to no good. We were actually joking about what we'd do if the coppers showed up when we heard a siren and the flash of patriotic lighting. Everyone scattered! We weren't doing anything illegal, but no one wanted to get questioned by the fuzz for whatever reason. I ran after a couple dare devils myself and tried to leap a wrought iron fence after them... but got caught on a tine. I tore my shirt and managed to get free. I'd lost track of the boys I'd been following, but I could hear bootfalls pounding behind me--almost as loud as the heart that was currently lodged between my ears! I sprinted over ditch and wire and found myself in a construction area. I tucked into a port-o-john and heard bootfalls slam past and only after I didn't hear them anymore did I let out the breath I'd been holding. It was then that the sting of my escape made itself known. I had a seven inch laceration down my stomach from rolling over the fence. I used some paper towels from the port-o-potty to patch up and slowly made my way back to my dorm room. The scratch ended up infected of course. But when I went in for treatment, it wasn't for Tetanus--from the fence, I thought... It was for Sepsis... from the port-o-john. Many lessons were learned. I tell people the scar is from getting in a fight with Edward Scissorhands.
All totaled, I'm still not a fan of public toilets and my scars are physical proof of the violent entanglements I've experienced within them, and often because of them... but I can say without a doubt that I've learned some valuable things from acquiring my scars, so to me they represent the chuckle-inducing follies of my youth and the wisdom I've gathered since.
Oh! PSA, kids: Don't feel ashamed about getting treatment for an injury sustained in the bathroom. Bonus PSA: Public restrooms are absolutely disgusting. Flush with your feet--It's safer!
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