It’s hard to take when the men simply walk away after completing their business. Sure, they did all they could for themselves, but what about me?
It’s like I don’t even exist in their mind; always in a hurry somewhere. When they leave, there’s often a dribble here or a dribble there, perhaps a piece of paper left to float. It seems they don’t care, but I find it disgusting.
If only I could speak instead of gurgle, I’d shout: “You need to flush your nasty turd! And damn it, put down the seat for the lady of the house!”