There was this one public toilet down in a little town called whitby that never ceased to amaze me. You see, there's all the usual grubbing of hastily scrawled names, foul language and crudely drawn appendages, and yet there was one stall that was free from these in most ways. This was simply because it was the territory of one 'Mr.42', who had (with the aid of a pocket knife) carefully and meticulously mapped out nearly his entire sexual autobiography on the walls of that one stall. And we aren’t talking little weedy phrases like "Sharon did 42" or "I Got Laid" ohh no. These were entire paragraphs, painstakingly laid out in chronological order and contained info on the date, where they had gone for a meal / entertainment, the evening itself and then his private thoughts on her after the evening was done (not 'how she was' but her pro's and con's and whether the relationship could ever be anything more then a fling). With the amount of time I spent in that privy I managed to read about a half of his entire chronicle, dating back to about 1998. I actually felt rather sorry for him, as it was clear that he was getting ever more depressed as time went on, the detail and passion in those little stories becoming ever more 'laxed and misdirectional. The last, far shorter entry had been painted over with the exact same color as that which had first graced the wall, all that was visible was the year: 2002
Now you're just being silly.