confessions of the righteous

I have taken to reading books in the bathroom at work. Yes, I am a bathroom reader, the lowliest of creatures. Why not? I enjoy books, I use bathrooms; is it not my prerogative to combine preferred activities? I read in the bathroom at home – should not minor creature comforts be allowed in my place of business? I have witnessed the residue of food-stuff in the bathroom – am I not at least more hygienic than they? Surely a book, with washed hands fore and after, represents less concern for cross contamination than ingestible goods? We wear our clothing into the bathroom with little concern; ladies and gentlemen of public opinion, how is a book then not in the realm of what is sound?

Yes. I see the quizzical looks of coworkers as I emerge from the bathroom with my literature in tow. And fix them with the steely gaze of accusation: I may be reading, friend, but you are performing untold evils in that tiled asylum, and I will not have you judging me.