I hope that’s just water on your floor and not pee. And are those…HAIRS? On the SEAT? Bleuargh. Don’t get me started on the quality of the air, either. If Febreze came in the shape of a bomb, I’d have 30 of them dropped right on this room. Your door doesn’t close all the way, your lock is faulty, and your toilet seat is broken. The bowl is yellowing with what I hope is an iron deposit. Speaking of deposits, you may want to try flushing BEFORE company comes over. Your flush handle is unresponsive to my touch: I have the embarrassing task of ask you how to flush the toilet. God forbid you have to eventually enter the room, spot my moderately-sized deuce floating in the water, and jiggle the handle 2-and-a-half times in a rhythmic pattern.
That’s not the end of it. Once the unsanitary part is out of the way, I’m put off by certain aspects of the room itself. There’s more porcelain on the creepy cat figurines than on the toilet. Your full-length mirror allows me to watch myself do my business, which can be either fun or off-putting, but decidedly odd nonetheless. It’s either too small in here, where I end up falling into the bathtub while navigating to the toilet; or too large in here, where I’m forced to greet your towel man and tip him a fair amount of money. And the design of the room? Well, let’s just say that I need to turn the light on at night or I may accidentally wind up squatting on the sink.
Your bathroom is foreign and uncomforting, and I’m frankly worried that I learn a lot more about you when I visit this room, more than any other room in the house might reveal.
The lack of cleanliness and caring in this bathroom shows me that you don’t have company over too often. Try picking up a brush. The toilet brush, for instance.
Let Your Bathroom…well, it already smells like death…Improve.