Rocks, chunks of dirt, sticks and who-knows-what-else poking into the soles of your feet, lowing hanging branches and prickers from bushes catching on your over-sized shirt, ripping it in a couple places, you dash toward the squat building, sure that it is the public toilet. Tripping over a root, you stumble, attempt to correct yourself and fall. Knees scrapping on something, a whimper of pain escaping you, you want to cry for mommy. Thinking, "No. No mommy. No girlish, kiddy thoughts," you struggle to your feet and continue on.
Upon reaching the squat building, you start laughing uncontrollably as you peer at it. Muttering, "Yes, yes, yes," with each word growing higher in decibel and excitement, you slap your hand against the cool cement and begin searching for the door in.
Thoughts of going back to being a man rush through your mind as you search the wall. Alternating between laughing and crying, unsure why, you are briefly disappointed to discover that there is no door. But then you tell yourself, "Well of course not, you silly-filly. This is probably the back or side," in a high-pitched tone and looking left, then right, you start walking toward the end of the building.
When you reach it you stop and peer around the corner. Only seeing the smooth concrete wall, you glance up and wonder, briefly, where the windows are. Shrugging, thinking it isn't important at the moment, you begin walking towards what you hope is the front of the building. Coming to the end of the wall, you peek around the corner, certain that the park, or something, would deny you and seeing a door, you squeal out, "Goodbye silly girly life," and without giving it another thought, you begin running toward the door as quickly as your short legs will carry you.
Your hands slapping against the door, causing peeling paint to fleck off and drift downward or stick to your hands, you grimace when the door doesn't budge. Cursing the childish form you have found yourself stuck, figuring its lack of muscle development was the reason, you push harder on the door. When it becomes clear you cannot even budge it, you start crying and beating on it, screaming out between sobs, "Let me it," and, "I don't want this anymore."
Tiny fist beating on the door, wails of unhappiness escaping you, at some point you see, through a veil of tears, a doorknob. Unable to remember if the public toilets had a knob, you stop what you are doing and sniffing, you reach and using both hands attempt to twist it. Pushing on the door as you do this, you struggle for a moment before the door finally begins to creak open. Crowing with elation, certain that you will find the public toilets on the other side, you slip through the open portion and blinking, you nearly scream when the door thuds closed, leaving you standing in the dark.
A fear of monsters and other unseen terrors creeping over you, you silently wish mommy was here and that you had your favourite dolly to cuddle. But then you think, "No. Those are not my thoughts," you attempt to banish them from your mind and turning, you start patting the wall, searching for either a light switch or the door.
Harsh wood, which you know to be the door, and rough concrete, the wall, can be felt as you search and after a moment, you find what feels like a button. Preferring having found the doorknob, you figure to take what you can and pressing it, you gasp and squeeze your eyes shut as a bright, yellowish-white light floods the area. Tiny motes of blue, black and red dots dancing across your vision, you slowly open your eyes after a bit. Trying to get them to become adjusted, you wait until you are able to open them completely before taking a deep breath. Thinking, "I'll turn around and I'll see my bed and my dollies and my dress-up mirror," and stopping, you squeeze your eyes shut and attempt to chase away what you are starting to call "Little girl thoughts".
After a couple minutes of this, breathing in slowly through your nose and exhaling slowly through your mouth, you once again open your eyes. Looking at the concrete wall, you grit your teeth for a moment then, slowly relaxing, you tell yourself, "I'll turn around and see the bathroom stalls. The grate. The row of sinks, complete with clothes. And along one wall, a set of urinals, of which I am supposed to be peeing in because I pee standing up, not sitting down. I have a icky boy parts," and unaware of the very last bit you said, you take a deep breath and slowly turn around.
A scream of frustration escaping you, you suddenly find you want to rage, throw yourself on the ground and have a temper tantrum. Peering at the lawn-care equipment, the bags of who-knows-what, the tools, a bench that had a vice attached to one end, and a calendar pinned up over it, you stamp your tiny foot and scream out, "It's not fair. It's supposed to be the toilet. Not a shed," and stamping your foot again, you turn and groan when you see that there was no knob on this side of the door.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," you begin screaming and beating your small fists against the door, you wish that you'd never come into the park as you once again start crying and wishing your mommy was here to help.