“Mommy, I don’t love you.” My two-year-old stands in the bathtub, smudging foam onto her belly.
All tagged bathroom
“Mommy, I don’t love you.” My two-year-old stands in the bathtub, smudging foam onto her belly.
To feel safe, I lock myself into bathrooms.
Mum and I are arguing about cosmetics again, about her tendency to hoard and let rot.
I am convinced I am dying in the bathroom of a coffee chain in Copenhagen.
I was doing what one does at a urinal in a Slamdance Film Festival party venue bathroom when a guy ran in yelling, "Everyone out! I gotta go!"
My grandmother believed you could tell a lot about people by their guest bathroom, hence the concern emerging in this coffin-like space: wallpaper of expressionless clowns framed like photo-booth mug shots from the local precinct, like sepia-toned images found on library microfiche while researching for a report on Wyatt Earp.