An open letter to Skid Mark

Dear Skid Mark,

I know you and your esteemed colleagues have been coming in and out of my house for a few months now and probably can't recall finding it in any condition that suggests that I am particularly obsessed with cleanliness and orderliness. I imagine you infer from the tiny mountain of used tissues, static mess of the second bedroom of cast-offs, and general lack of order that you couldn't do much worse and would be surprised if I even noticed your dusty footprints, position of the leash you put away when you leave, or a faint smell sneaking past my stuffed nostrils that is suggestive of perfume used as an air freshener.

But I do notice, S.M., I do notice. I notice the lid down on the toilet once again. I think back to the faint perfume I smelled when I walked in this evening and I think, 'oh God, do I even want to look?' But I have to look, because I have only one toilet and I need to use it. And then I see you have upped the ante. Before I could only imagine what you were doing in my bathroom. Now I know. A second flush would have left me blissfully ignorant to the extent of your defilement but for reasons I can't possibly relate to, you chose not only to forgo the second flush but also noticeably fondled the Obama issue Rolling Stone. And S.M., wtf? Did you wrap your fist in toilet paper? I just put that roll on yesterday. You may think because I don't pick up the tiny Santa hat that my dog ripped off her Christmas toy 2 weeks ago that I'm so filthy and messy I would be oblivious to your activity but S.M., I've got plans for you. I'm going to turn off the water to the toilet, you're going to desecrate my bathroom, not be able to flush it, and be shamed from ever using it again. Sure, it will cost me one throat-closing day of stench (probably mixed in with my perfume) when I come home to whatever you couldn't flush down, but I think you'll see the danger you court when choosing private spaces to defile.

It is on.