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Dear Fellow Men Who Try to Talk to Me in The Restroom,

Frankly, I’m surprised this even needs to be written. I’m well aware that we grew up in different time periods and, in all actuality, had different housing environments altogether, but I was under the impression that this was one of those universal constants that all humanity agreed upon. Like gravity. Or not trying to eat fire unless properly trained.

I wish I could say that this has happened to me everywhere I’ve been, that it’s not limited to this office. Because if that were true, I could spare you the shame of having to think about the times you’ve walked into the restroom and felt the need to strike up a conversation about how you’re glad it’s Friday. But it’s not true, and you desperately need to think about it.

See, this is one of the few times that we, in our navel-gazing society ridden with tabloid journalism and social networks, should be guaranteed of privacy. This is a time when we’re at our most vulnerable. Our penises are out, and we’re staring straight forward at that spot on the wall, and we’re doing that in silence.

Did you know that, in some countries, talking to other men in the restroom is a capital offense? No lie. You’ll be decapitated.

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