The commotion in the office couldn’t stop me from nodding off at my desk; but the feeling of the keyboard on my forehead prompted me to seek a solution. There are two remedies to choose from in these situations: coffee or a toilet nap. Coffee would revitalize my spirit and make me productive for the last hour of work. But I wasn’t craving energy, so I chose toilet nap.
I pull down my pants as a precautionary measure so I look like a shitter to my fellow bathroom patrons. Normally I rest my head on my arm and my arm on the toilet paper dispenser, but yesterday afternoon I folded my arms in my lap and laid my head to rest on my makeshift crotch pillow. I was instantly asleep and recall enjoying a terrifying dream where I was plunging headfirst from a Gotham City styled skyscraper, spinning and twirling as Seal’s Kissed By A Rose played in the background. Before the dream ended I awoke, snapping my head back. That’s when the spinning began.
My eyes could not keep still. Closing them only intensified it. I tried to steady myself and grab the stall door, but the inside of my head was spinning so fast that I couldn’t reach it. I leaned back against the cool, tile wall and tried to focus on something, but the beige stall couldn’t grab my attention. Running out of options, I gripped the gap between the divider and the wall and said out loud, ‘Stop spinnng.’ Slowly the spinning stopped. I held my head in my hands, and stared down at my crotch thinking, “Why do we have to die?’
Let the sweating commence.
First it was a few rogue drips, and then it poured down my forehead from my scalp and dripped onto my panties. It rose from my inner thighs and arms and chest, so I unbuttoned my shirt and threw it in the corner and then ripped off my undershirt and threw it in the corner and continued to drip, intermittently wiping myself down with toilet paper. I breathed deeply, waiting for the nausea to dissipate, and slowly summoned some strength to stand. I left the stall to grab some paper towels and wiped my body down. The sweat wouldn’t quit so I dabbed myself with my undershirt and limped out of the bathroom.
Marketing was going out for farewell drinks after work, so I chugged three glasses of water and sat at my desk, determined to make it to the end of the day. I slunk into my chair, leaned my head back and let my jaw slack open. I tried the simple task of copy/paste, which nearly made me vomit, so I gathered my energy and told my boss I had to leave work immediately. My dept is full of mothers, so they gave me some water, petty cash for a cab, and escorted me out of the building.
When I reached the street I collapsed in front of the subway grate as the H.R dude held his limp arm to the sky to hail from a sea of off duty cabs. I puked up the three cups of water and my stolen sushi from lunch and it felt sooo good.
I rose from the street like a hunchback when two bored paramedics materialized behind me and threw questions in my face: Do you know where you are? Were you just in McDonalds? Do you know what day it is? I looked askance and answered: Park Ave, No, Wednesday. They said I matched the description of a suspect who was just screaming and making a mess in McDonalds, and asked me to if I wanted to go to the hospital with the police. The dude from H.R rescued me, telling the nosy paramedics that we just walked onto the street from the office and to leave us alone. He finally hailed a cab, and I passed out inside.
Later that night I watched Edward Penishands with my sexy roommate in her bed and can’t ever remember being more sexually frustrated in my life.