THE PLIGHTS OF PORCELAIN or EWW or HOW MY DELICATE SENSIBILITIES ARE GROSSED OUT AND LATER RESCUED

Ladies,
You know how there's that one toilet in a public restroom (or more than one, depending on location of said public restroom) that someone's taken an uneartlhy dump in and has, for whatever reason, neglected to flush away? And, in a public restroom of ten toilets, you walk into the stall housing the nasty toilet because, like, that's your favorite one, right? What you see there in front of you shakes you to the core so, nearly drowning in wave after wave of nauseau, you save yourself from the undercurrent of crap and scurry out of stall, backwards, nearly falling down on your ass as you utter a loud expletive and curse the disgusting beast of a human being who doesn't know how to clean up after herself.

It takes you a while to calm yourself. You hold your breath because now everthing reeks of crap and, very cautiously, you tap open the door of a stall on the opposite end of the restroom, as far as you can possibly get from that feculent toilet. Upon catching sight of pristine porcelain perfection lapping with nothing but crisp water, you exhale with relief (no pun intended).

Now, if this toilet happens to be in a restroom at a place like, say, work, you'll have to venture to the restroom numerous times (the number of times can fluctuate according to what proper hydration means to you) and, if you're anything like me, you'll accidently walk into the stall of crap each and every time because that was your favorite stall, after all, until some heartless, inconsiderate fiend decided to go and spoil that. Each and every time, you will likely have the same reaction: nearly falling as you scurry out of stall backwards, uttering loud expletive (depending on how many times this happens, the one loud expletive can very quickly multiply into a string of loud expletives). This experience will very nearly spoil your day unless, of course, a braver soul than you decides its time to rescue dainty sensitivities, such as your own, from such ghastliness.

It doesn't take much thought on the part of this maverick. She simply walks into restroom, then walks into the stall of horrors and, without even having seen you cowered and jittery in a corner, she sighs exasperatedly (this might be accompanied by a roll of the eyes and/or a shake of the head), and, flushing the toilet with a foot, she closes the door of the stall behind her, like it's no thang to be in the same tiny space as crap-filled porcelain, in the process of emptying itself out. As young or old as she may be, the restroom maverick, very much, has the same air about her as a tired mother.

So, to maverick toilet flusher lady, I say thank you, for everything.