Dear Woman Who Just Left This Bathroom Stall,
What the holy hell happened in here? My brain is racing through the possibilities. Did you splay starfish-style against the walls of the stall and misfire from above? Did you decide to practice a little yoga while you had some down time?
Only moments ago, we made eye contact as you passed; I noted your cute shoes. And now here I stand, preparing to wipe one-half-gallon of your urine off my toilet seat.
How was this spatter pattern physically possible? Did you stand over the seat under the misimpression that you have a penis? Clearly you do not have a penis. Territorial drunk men with prostate issues have better aim than you.
If you continue to do this, leave filthy messes for complete strangers despite being in your late thirties, eventually someone will point it out. I hope they will point it out by slamming open the stall, grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, and pushing your nose up to the toilet seat, while shouting, “No! NO! Baaaad stranger! Baaaaaad!”
In the meantime, I’ll be here with half a roll of toilet paper wrapped around my hand, mopping up a grown woman’s pee-pee.