Surreality log, October 30, 2002, 11:20 p.m.

A few days ago I re-dyed my hair, which required bleaching it out since it had grown a quarter inch or so. I use the highest power bleach available (not for sale to minors!) because I am impatient, and it tends to leave my scalp blotched here and there with surface chemical burns. Hurts like a motherfucker too, I tell you what. Anyway, when the burns are healing, they itch, so I scratch at my scalp. And since I have a bunch of fresh blue dye there, my hands and fingernails get stained mightily.

What do we do when our hands are dirty, kids? We wash 'em! Because I'm at work guarding computer labs and herding nerds tonight, this requires walking to one of the big tile bathrooms of the vintage 1950's bomb-proof building.

When I get there, even outside the room there is a scent of ammonia -- the janitors, I figure, have recently cleaned here. Opening the door presents me with a burst of the odor powerful enough to bring tears, made extra-special bad by the Wet Naps type baby powder perfume that must have been included with whatever cleaning product is making the stench. Ok, I think, I'll wash up fast while taking no more than two breaths, and get the hell out. So I go past the doorway and into the room, and over by the sinks, standing still and gazing into the mirror stands ...


... wait for it ...


... a very, very naked man. Like, seriously for real full frontal naked. Fifty years old and bald and naked. On Wednesday night in the engineering building, naked.

I exit before the door even shuts, and more importantly before the dude registers that somebody has entered the room, and go on to the other bathroom. As of the past thirty minutes, I haven't seen the guy at all, walking past my window, or flashing people, etc. Best case, he was some professor pulling a second all-nighter who decided to clean off with Windex or something. Worst case, I don't really want to think about. Hooray for all the random shit that always seems to happen on my shift ...