The cashier at the café whose bathroom I had just inhabited has a full beard, round rimless spectacles, is bald and pasty, wears all black, and overall exudes an Edward Gorey vibe, like he’s his spoiled son with entitled notions of being a cartoonist. Given the stinky population of those who use café restrooms short of patronizing them, as the implicit contract in civilized society goes, we now need a 4-digit PIN in order to access the bathroom, which Edward Gorey’s son sullenly gave me. Per their “lock this door” note tapped inside, I secured the clasp lock, thoroughly wiped the seat, removed my pants, underwear, and pensively sat down. Of the Descartian I think, therefore I am, may I submit I sit, therefore I think. I thought about my plans for the day. I thought about my J. Crew shorts, and how swell they looked. I thought about cronyism, nepotism, Ivy league schools and cocktail parties, envisioning a bloody coup whose instigator — via a searing 30,000 word New Republic, Inquiry, or Yorker article — would be a humble me. I thought about being interviewed by Michael Silverblatt, to whom I would be reduced to constantly saying “thank you.” Someone jiggled the door handle. I prematurely pinched off a turd in fear. Why did Edward Gorey’s son give out the 4-digit PIN to a fellow patron when he knew it was being occupied by me? I know he’s probably getting paid minimum wage, and getting minimum head in his adult life, but how hard is it to remember one small yet critical fact? I quickly wiped, slipped my pants back on, and turned around to inspect my detritus, as I always do before flushing. The good news is I’m regular. The bad news is I’m abnormal. I exit the bathroom, give the entire café one nasty look, and create this blog post.