The Angels are Singing

It's here! As promised. Isn't it glorious? It's not American Standard, it's Royal Tern. Be thankful I didn't get one that's currently in use. I'm not exactly sure what to call this, but it's better than a Moroccan toilet. Also a few steps up from a hole in the ground. A glorified hole in the ground, really. We used to call it "hell on earth." The memories.

This is the kind of toilet that builds character. I've always maintained it takes sheer guts to get up, look down at the mess you've made and make it go away. No cowardly hitting of the flush, trying not to think of what's going down into the pipes. This is straight-up looking into the jaws of hell itself. I think we try to avoid looking at our own sordid creations, really. This applies outside of the toilet too.


I'm not sure why I'm talking about toilets. Except that it's 1AM and I'm woozy. And that I'm afraid if I don't blog about it now, I never will. Excuse its beauty.