I piss, therefore I am. At first I tried to urinate only occasionally, as if it were a hobby, but the oozing warmth, the refreshing splash took hold of my soul like a welcome rapist and I have moved into the bathroom, set up shop here, denounced all other rooms as porcelain-deficient. I have my books, my Mister Coffee, and my unsalted snacks arranged around the toilet on Lemon-Pledged tables. I sit on my tutu-pink padded toilet seat (oh the Raw Buttocks Ring makes me weep for others less fortunate) amid the two-ply squishably soft rolls upon rolls of paper and the stacked mesas of Evian cases, for I am the Colorado River of humanoids, and this, my life, is the Grand Canyon.
     Alonso rattles the lock and pleads, for we have just the one bathroom, and while I mourn for his predicament, I can only hope he is discrete when defecating in the backyard, or having a slash in the kitchen sink, or hopefully, sharing Mister Willoughby's litter box.
     Mister Willoughby's paw emerges from under the door and swipes a dust ball left to right. He mews with news of the household. Alonso has taken to crouching in the hallway and whimpering for me to come to my senses. I am sympathetic, but I have no truck with the non-micturating world now, for I am Queen Pee, although I despise people who pun on a regular basis.
     I used to be a closet tinkler. I would lock myself into the steel safes of public restrooms and bite back the cry of pleasure when the floodgates opened. There I would shudder, on my parchment papered platform, my lip bleeding, my eyes rolling square in their sockets with joy at the perfection of my piddle. Now, locked way, I am free to cry out with pleasure, orgasmically, arms flailingly. I flush with pride at my creative solution.
     When Mister Burrows fired me, pointing out that I engaged in far too many bathroom breaks, I asked how many per day were appropriate. Five? Ten? Fifty-seven, he said, were too many, for he had lurked, counting. Moving the ten gallon coffee urn to my desk inconvenienced my colleagues, he said. My coffee hat was the last straw, he said. Clients were distracted by the tube emerging from my scalp, snaking café au lait in a modulated stream directly to my mouth. I had believed a coffee hat to be an efficient workplace timesaver. Mister Burrows had believed a coffee hat was appropriate in a ballpark, but not in a funeral parlor, not atop someone demonstrating silk-lined sarcophagi to grieving family remnants of the recently deceased.
     Ah, the java jive. Waiter, waiter, percolator. The Deity of Diuretics. The God of The Golden Shower. How perfect that my need for coffee should be the catalyst for my new life. I collected my Calvin & Hobbes mugs, my macramé wastebaskets, my shabby post-it notes, and left the building, lifting my skirt and pissing only once in the yaupon viz ilex vomitorium bushes out front. The red berries, glazed with ammonia, never looked shinier.
     Alonso again suggested psycho-analysis. I offered psycho-urinalysis, which made him sob and turn away. It is difficult to be a free juicer in a urethra swathed culture - oh the stigma! I wish Alonso shared my bliss, but our competition would cause friction, our union would be dissolved, and what would become of our beloved pussy, Mister Willoughby? Alas, this is the way it must be: My love and I on opposite sides of the padlocked bathroom door until dehydration us do part.
     Prevailing wisdom says that being fired often leads to better opportunities, to the unnecessary in one job becoming invaluable in another, opening pathways one would never have explored without the time to develop a hobby into a fledgling second career. I, for one, am exploring my career pathways in uric acid production. I only hope I will be an inspiration to others less well-seated for success than myself.