Pet Peeve: Second Hand Embarrassment Coupled With Confusion

I feel things very deeply. I’m a sensitive soul in some ways, but hard as concrete in others. The problem with my sensitivity is that my brain can’t seem to distinguish the different levels of pain I should feel, based on any given circumstance. 

I was so haunted, years ago, by a murder that happened in Texas that it plagued my thoughts and dreams for MONTHS. Which murder, you wonder? It’s Texas so it could’ve been any number of them. The one I’m referring to, though, is when some racist, murderers drug a Black man from the back of their pickup truck. Why are pickup trucks the preferred method of transportation for racists? I guess the better to conveniently transport the many Black people they plan to kill, my dear. Anyway, they drug this poor man on the back of the truck until his fucking limbs came off. How horrifying is that? Because you know shock doesn’t hit as soon as you skin your knee. It probably doesn’t even hit when the bone is showing through after a few layers of epidermis have been burned off. It doesn’t kick in until you’re way past sure you have the most useless super power ever, which is to feel pain like any normal person, but your brain doesn’t have the go-into-shock-mode switch, so you’re just in this horror show until your heart finally gives out; cognizant until your dying breath.  
^^^THIS is totally worthy of my sensitivity, endless months of thoughts and concerns, right? 

Then, I had something happen that caused me *almost* the same level of focus. I had gone to a movie with a friend and needed to use the restroom. I went into the second stall it was disgusting, moved on to the third stall and it was out of tissue. So I backtracked to the first stall. Success! Using the women’s bathroom is like playing Russian roulette. You just never know  if a surprise disaster will await you. 

Anyway, I go through the process of emptying my bladder and I hear some girls come in, who basically had the same experience with one key difference. That difference is one girl's attitude toward the situation before us.   I’m wiping front to back (as girls should) and hear one girl STOPPING at the third stall. I’m on the team of women until proven guilty of some shit, so I call over, “Hey, that stall is out of tissue.” 

I had plans to take over some tissue once I was done, which would’ve been in 2 seconds, after I pulled up my granny panties and unflattering jeans. Yet, before I could do that she shouts back, “Well, it’s a good thing I only have to pee.” 

Initially, this shit didn’t compute. What?! How is there a way to sit on the commode, and do anything other than cry, that will not require tissue?! Even if you were crying in a stall, because you hate your shit job like I used to, you would still want tissue for your snotty nose! Now, my mind is racing  I’ve just now realized how bad Black Women have it. We could never get away with this shit and live to tell the tale. Also, clearly this wasn’t a problem for her friend because she didn’t say, “Oh, well, let me get you some tissue.” 

*side eye*
 So, I can assume that the friend does the same shit! My mind just would not let it go and it would not stop trying to figure out a time when I would just let my urine-soaked pussy just drip for a few seconds, (not even drip dry because how long would that take???) then go about my business like normal. How could I do it, Sway? How? I would rather take my fucking drawers off to wipe myself and have to throw them away before I attempted some drip damp shit. I would rather walk around the bathroom, sans panties and pants so as to avoid getting piss on them, before I did some shit like that. Silly women… getting away with shit that no one else could ever possibly get away with since Eve.