Dearest Drunk Ass Bitch currently freaking out behind me,
Oh, young Tampax blossom. I feel your pain. Your bladder bursting, spastic squirming, drunken stupor pain. I truly do.
You have arrived at the loo brimming with bright hopes and bodily fluids, only to be greeted by ten female forms anxiously awaiting their own two minutes of glory. You are devastated, crestfallen by the harsh realization you are not the sole Porcelain Princess seeking her majestic throne. You have trekked through the mass of writhing, intoxicated bodies, dodging gropes and spilt drinks alike, abandoning your friends and a moderately attractive lad wearing too much cologne at the bar—only to be denied your natural human desire to piss at a moment’s notice. You would cry if only the wetness of your tears did not remind you of the unfortunate reason you are here.
I understand your plight. And I think your skirt is cute. But alas, my sloppy sister, I have a secret for you:
Your snatch is not a *special snowflake*.
We are all here for the same damn reason, and the urgency with which your Honey Blonde Ale is passing through your tiny body does not surpass the social standard of getting in line.
Your need to utilize your high n mighty urethra this instant does not entitle you to throw a tantrum akin to a toddler soiling herself. The betches in front of you have been waiting for a stall longer than a few mere seconds—some of them in heels, for God’s sake—and while I do not envy their poor footwear choices, I do envy their ability to tune out your incessant puppy-near-newspaper whimpering. By all means literally get your panties in a bunch if it’ll help ease your suffering, but seriously. Pull yourself together, woman.
The women’s restroom at a bar is a sacred space. It is a safe haven from crass male advances and the passive aggressive inner-workings of your inebriated girlfriends. It is the communal gathering ground for the incessant mirror checkers, the lighthearted gossipers, the too gone too soon 21st birthday girls. The ladies’ room is where you will bond with your cootch possessing soul mate for one minute over a shared interest in Amaretto sours, only to lose her seconds later as she fixes her top and immerses herself back into the outside world. But it is in those fleeting moments—when you glance at the rando girl next to you and exchange a look of isn’t this just the craziest line you’ve ever seen/oh wow you have the prettiest eyes where can I get some of those—that you learn what a blessing it is to be female and not be forced to put your parts on display via urinal usage.
There is particular restroom etiquette we women must adhere to. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if drunk betches can’t be nice to drunk betches in the bathroom, the fuck kind of world do we live in?
So, my darling DAB, go forth into your much anticipated pee palace. Relish this feeling of relief, as I’m sure the initial urge will reoccur approximately 23 minutes from now after you’ve downed another beer. Also, I’m sorry for muttering “Shut up or I’ll punt you in the vagina,” every time you opened your mouth.
A fellow small-bladdered betch