WHERE DO THEY GO?

She came home at the same time as I did, informing me that she was on her way to get a haircut. And then announced: "but first, I pee". When I got to the teevee room and sat down, the internal monologue had started.
"And lo, she is peeing. Hark, she peeeth".
"The peeing nears completion".
"She has peed".

Storm surge. That being what a woman peeing always is. Unlike men, they are choosy about such things, and will hold it in until they find a secure spot.
Of which there are few in this city.

I can sympathize.


However, since the days when I worked at the Indian restaurant and did not trust anyone near the cash register, I can hold it in for over six hours. Easily. Unlike most women I know, who visit the powder room every two hours, and consequently never rough it, not even visiting the far wilds of San Francisco, where the possum and coyote roam. One would like to blame them for the smell of downtown, especially the Market Street area.
But that is not their fault.

In all honesty I do not know where women pee in this city.

Only one of them pees in this apartment.



If it were staggered, more of them could. And probably even over a dozen, if a schedule were posted and rigidly obeyed. Of course our water usage would go through the roof, which would displease my landlords.
However I think the facility itself could handle it.



Unless I meet the ideal woman, AND my apartment mate approves of her, there will be no invites.




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