The Epiphany Toilet


Some people put titles to blog posts, journals, term papers, novels, etc. without any question, but maybe to help keep their writing focused.  Some writers come up with a title while writing, and others come up with a title after the piece of writing.  In the literal sense, a book can be judged by it’s cover and a bottle of wine can be judged by it’s labeling.  Sarah and I, upon our deciding to get a random bottle, had opted for a bottle with a unique label.  Whether it’s a good wine or not, the decision had been made based upon the looks of things.

The title of my novel, which has yet to be completed in the five years of intermittent writing, blaming myself thoroughly, setting myself up perfectly to now reference Led Zeppelin lyrics–nobody’s fault but mine–and backing up how I roll, reminding you how I segue after segue and even segueing segues, bringing up Monty Python and


What I’m trying to say is, when it comes down to brass tacks and keeping on the topic of making a decision on a perfect and attractive title, referring to the outstanding novel, letting you know that outstanding clearly describes the prolonging completion and not a description of greatness

Okay.  I’ve changed the title to the novel about five or six times.  While driving the other day, commuting back home, the title had been changed to The Ocean.  Past titles?  Louis Prima on a Friday Night, A Nation of People Singing in Cars, This Is Just the In Between, and A Man Exits.  The latter two are song references to Hopesfall, and the foremost is not a reference to Led Zeppelin.  Yes, I know you’re shocked, but John Butler.
The original title of this post was “The Epiphany Toilet and Other Mysteries We Are Uncomfortable Talking About,” but I shortened it.  I need to stop coming up with these stupid, elongated titles.  They are to reminiscent of emo bands trying too hard to metaphorically get their point across that may or may not have reference to their songs. 
Stop crying about your high school girlfriend.  You’re in your thirties.  If you’re writing about a current relationship, switch to metal and complain about something worthwhile.  Remember folks, lyrics are lyrics; vent your frustration through composition.  It’s more artistic that way. The mechanics make the song in my opinion.
Enough about that.
There are times when you have to go, and so you go.  There are times when you have to go and you are in a public place, but you must suck it up to… well, squeeze it out.  Whether you’re at work and have to use the stall, or at a concert and (unfortunately) have to strategically prop yourself up in a port-a-potty.  When you gotta go, you gotta go. 
As soon as the anxiety kicks in, however, forget about it. 
I used to be like you, yes!  Now, I can.  Why?  Because I had to install it in my head.  It had to become habitual before I had to accept it.  Accept the fact I was comfortable with it, actually.
In that episode of Scrubs, the topic of a roof toilet was touched upon.  A roof toilet was needed to ensure the privacy and comfort of the pooper.  I stand by that 100 percent.  However, on some buildings:  not so much.  On the roof of the M.O.S.T., of course, it would work.  Atop of Loretto, the roof toilet would work out even better. Atop of the present work’s building:  that would probably work, too.  I haven’t been up there to fully determine.
Let’s back up, and we can take a look at why I’m talking about such a topic.
I was in the stall this morning, doing what I had to be done, guessing my ending up there was the combination between the previous night’s wine and the morning’s coffee, but someone was in the stall next to me, which is the stall where the phrase F*** THE IRISH is engraved in the faux-ble (fake marble) and a piece of paper, reading the words DO NOT REMOVE, is placed over a hole next to the toilet, leading perfectly into a segue for me to tell my audience this object is the inspiration for my short story called “The Breeding Ground for Monsters,” which segues further to reference the Michael Scott quote from the American version of The Office
Anyway.  I still am not 100 percent comfortable with the situation.  No one would be.  I don’t like to be known that I did my business, so I wait it out.  If I am the second pooper in the vicinity, I wait for the first pooper to fully leave the bathroom.  If I am the first and a second enters, I try to finish as soon as possible.  If I can’t, I must burn more minutes.  It’s easy if I have my iPod:  I can listen to a song or play a game of Klondike. 
I don’t want to know who is next to me.  It’s uncomfortable.  You couldn’t look at anyone in the eye after a common ordeal like that.  You don’t want the guy tapping his foot, either.  Yikes.  I just don’t want to be seen.  It’s a streak that one wants to keep going.  No one wants to be caught, really.  What if someone had the audacity to come up to you and ask how it went.  It would scar me.
Plus, in reference to another Scrubs episode, I recently found out that I am on the same schedule as some other guy.  I’m not happy to admit that, and I did not acknowledge it.  The other guy did, and it creeps the hell out of me.
It’s true though.
At the museum, the clientele could be avoided.  We had three levels of toilets to choose from:  the Executive, the Patron, and the Sub-Exec (basement).  Yes, those are the designated names Chris, Andy, Paul and I reference the bathrooms by.  There was always a way to avoid a public acknowledgement.  I didn’t want some guy or kid telling their kid or father that the planetarium host was taking a poop.  It’s embarrassing. 
Amongst the gentleman, there was talk about the installation of the Epiphany Toilet.
You know what an epiphany is.  If you don’t, look it up.  You know what a toilet is.  If you don’t, I am absolutely worried about your state of mind.  Put the two together and there you have it.  If you don’t:  sitting upon the the roof toilet yields a revelation towards personal greatness and knowledge; ergo, yielding happiness. 
If that doesn’t do it for you, Michael J. Fox was in the episode, advocating it.  Never in my life have I once distrusted Mr. Fox.
However, there really isn’t any epiphany one can receive on a regular toilet.  I did, however, come up with two ideas for blog posts.  I guess my road to greatness, if it ever should come about, is through writing and more writing.  I just need to keep it going.  After a spell of brain farts, no pun intended, ideas have came through recently. 
It’s the type of mindless activity, a habitual activity (I generate numerous literary thoughts while in the shower, which is why I need a tape recorder to not lose track of them), that can yield the best out of you as a person.  The concept of the novel I am writing was simply based upon the fact that a person can be themselves while driving alone, cranking the music, and venting out loud to themselves.  That’s where the idea for me two write the novel came from.
That and the movie Garden State.
It’s just the act of taking in everyday life you observe, not your own, and putting the pen to paper.  Incorporating your life into your fiction can work, but if you get carried away, you are better off writing a memoir.  Having a handful of chapters is wearing me down.  The project should have been completed, but that’s life.  I’m not married to writing, careerwise.  I just need simpler goals.  Michael Chabon, remembering what I read, aims to write 1,000 words a day.  I do, I just need to project the words and thoughts differently, concentrating on pieces like I am conentrating on a workout:  I need to focus on writing exercises for different days.
Here we go folks.  The novel will be done by 2013.
That is, unless, the world does end.
We all know zombies can’t read.

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