The Staff Bathroom

The other day, I was using the library bathroom before my shift began when it caught my attention that the stall I was in had no toilet paper. This was alarming, since the position I was in demanded such an amenity. So, I had to do the pants-around-my-ankles, feces-between-my-glutes shuffle over to the stall next to mine. Then that one had no toilet paper, either. There are only two stalls in the staff bathroom.

I began contemplating what to do. The first thing that came to mind was to step out of my underwear, use that to wipe, and then dispose of the evidence on the way out. It would no doubt cause a stench which one of my coworkers would probably report, but so long as I kept quiet nobody would have any reason to suspect me. It would probably just get pinned on one of the hobos who frequent the public access computers. But then I wondered whether polyester-cotton blend would even work as an effective arschenputzer, rather than just smear it around, and decided there was no reason to soil my Dallas Cowboys boxer shorts just so I could spend the rest of the day reeking of the shit that was caked onto my asscheeks.

There was a paper towel dispenser next to the sink, and I elected to make a dash for it. Realizing that having my pants around my ankles would only slow me down, I removed them along with my shoes and socks and scurried over to the paper towels, taking several handfuls very quickly before dashing back to the stall.

For the record, I almost made it back. Just as I was almost back to the stall, the bathroom door behind me opened so quickly that I had absolutely no chance to react.

It was Henry, my boss. I know it was him on account of the full-length mirror that was in front of me, which--and I don't know why--I looked into at the very same moment that Henry did. I don't know which image of me was more terrifying: My bare ass, with a vertical brown stripe running up the crack, or the mirror reflection which showed me completely naked from the waist down, a look of astonishment on my face as I practically leaped back into the stall while clutching two fistfuls of paper towels.

I slammed the door shut. I could feel him standing out there, just inside the bathroom door. He was as frozen stiff as I was. Finally, after what seemed like several hours, I heard the door open.

"Mr. King?" he said at last.

"Yes, Henry?"

"You won't be needed this evening, Mr. King," he said, and left the bathroom.

I was still standing up, and I seemed unable to remember where I was or how I got there. At last, I finished what I had originally set out to do and left the library at march tempo.

Textagrams

All of the words in any person's vocabulary can be divided up and placed into one of two categories: closed class or open class. Words that fit into the former category include prepositions such as 'to,' and articles such as 'the.' Such words exist for purely grammatical reasons; they do not have very concrete definitions of their own, but they contribute to the overall agreement of a sentence or phrase. The reason this class is referred to as being "closed" is because there are only so many grammatical words needed by any particular language; for example, Standard English has only room for one definite article (the). (More inflected languages, such as most languages in Europe, may have more definite articles than Standard English, but nevertheless there is a finite number of such words required, so that none are ever lost or gained.) Further, the semantics of "closed class" words can be difficult or impossible to define, and thus their dictionary definitions are not truly representative of the words' actual meanings.

The other class, the "open" class of words, takes up the vast majority of any person's vocabulary. These are "dictionary" words; that is, a good lexicographer can detail the exact meaning of a given word (in a given setting). So, if I use the word "dog" to you, you can be sure of what I am talking about without much context (on the other hand, imagine if the word were "of"; you would have no idea what its meaning could be without any context, even though it is a word entirely familiar to you). A "dog" has several semantic features: organic, animate, mammalian, canine, domestic, etc. Any word in the "open" class can be broken down in this sort of way.

The reason this class is referred to as "open" is that there is no limit to how many of such words can be in the lexicon of any particular language. New words are constantly being added to the open class, and are easily incorporated into anyone's vocabulary. Think of all the words and new definitions the internet has given us: blog, n00b, pwn, tweet, wall, etc.

So to my point: I've discovered and coined a concept for which there is, as far as I know, no word. Mark it: I would like to submit a word to be considered for candidacy to be a member of the open class: Textagrams.

The concept is this: When you send a text message with predictive text, oftentimes your phone will "predict" the wrong word. For example, if you type "beer," the word displayed on the screen might be "adds." This occurs because most of us don't type using keys that are each assigned to a particular letter of the alphabet; instead, each key could be any of three or four letters, on top of a single digit. So hitting 2-3-3-7 could be either "beer" or "adds"; likewise, 2-6-6-5 can be "book" or "cool."

This is doing interesting things to our language, I believe. Words are taking on new meanings because of the technological phenomenon of "textagrams" (I'm calling them this because of their similarity to anagrams). For example, some people have started using the word "book" to mean "cool" and "adds" to mean "beer." This creates a "code"; in order to speak the language, you have to know the rules, and the rules are arbitrary (as opposed to natural). Only speakers who have the key to the gate, the rules, are capable of speaking and understanding Textagrams; otherwise, it's nonsense.

Thus, the technology of cell phones is not only serving to expand the English vocabulary, the way past technologies have done. It is actually being taken a step further; a new sub-dialect is taking shape, a system of words with rules known only to an exclusive group of speakers, similar to Cockney Back and Rhyming Slang. Take a look at these Textagrams I've found (there are surely many, many more) and you'll see just how impossible it would be to decipher such a code without being privy to the rules.

Textagrams:
2-3-3-7: Beer, adds
2-6-6-5: Cool, Book
7-3-6-4-7: Penis, Semis
3-3-2-3: Dead, deaf
2-2-7: Cap, bar

A Narcissist, to his Mistress

Everything I've ever known and loved reminds me of you:
Rain on a summer Sunday after a storm,
Unexpected invitations to birthday parties,
Raisins,
And so on.

In the morning, upon waking,
I look up into the mirror and see my face,
And see yours,
And kiss myself in the mirror
And kiss you.

When I make love to myself,
I feel as if I am making love to you,
Unless I am
Making love to myself
Using the aid of pornography.

And when I am actually with you,
I feel like I'm with a reflection of myself,
So that
There are two of us both--
You and me in me and you.

I will ask, "Would you like wine?"
And, touching the bottle of Shiraz,
You'll respond,
"Yes, I would like some;
I prefer this variety in particular."

And my double (in you)
Will ask your double (in me)
Likewise,
And your double (in me)
Will respond likewise.

And then I'll lean across the table
And you'll kiss me,
And you'll
Merge back with yourself
And I'll merge with me.

And then I'll ask you,
While touching the Shiraz,
If you
Would like a glass,
And you'll say, "I prefer Merlot."

Then, after our date
I'll go home and look in the mirror
And think
Of when I saw you
When I didn't see you.