memoirs of a kangaroo in the sun.

‘Does it really count as starting over if you’re doing it for the nth time?’ ‘Isn’t that more of a re-arrangement than an overhaul?’ ‘Does it have to be an overhaul to count as a start-over?’ All these questions run through my mind as I look through red-rimmed eyelids at the grey wooden toilet door. I’ve been seated in this stall for about almost an hour hoping that I will finally compose myself long enough to walk back to my desk and act like nothing is happening. It’s a narrow stall; I can’t even spread my hands out fully in opposite directions, but somehow I like that. Every fifteen minutes or so, I get up, flush the toilet (to make it look like it was nothing but an exceptionally long call) and then reach for the door. The tears then make a re-appearance and I sit back down. It’s not smelly thank God, and the white wall tiles are surprisingly well kept. A one Gerald stuck a note on the inside of the toilet door basically threatening us into remembering bathroom eti