even better than blogging

At 24 years of age, I’ve racked up a substantial quantity of trips to the loo, and like any fragile princess, avoid public toileting at all cost. That changes, of course, after a night on the turps, when closely following the ingestion of my 11th saki-bomb, the bar’s toilet transforms from an exercise in seat hovering to god-sent salvation. It’s at this point that the cubicle comes into it’s own, revealing an inspired world of art and poetry. Easily dismissed by daylight, those toilet door ramblings now begin to make sense, and you can safely assume you’re wasted. You’re in a special place, a place where some of the most important thinkers of our day meet to share their ideal, philosophies and notifications of love interest. That lipstick poem, hastily scribbled now reveals the very essence of life’s mysteries. Howard is a cunt – yes! And Randall does have a big cock. All this and more on the back of a lowly toilet door. Which if looked at in another way, proves how shit comes out in more ways than one.