Nothing like it in the whole world, that's for sure. Aside from all the other bathrooms in all the other homes on this forsaken, abandoned planet. Though some lack that dark mold in the corner, and the silverfish that crawl up through the drain as they shower. They really should file a complaint with their landlord, right? Tomorrow sounds like a good day for that, so did the past however many tomorrows it's been. This one, for sure. The shower is tempting, but they don't really feel like it. It'd also make them late. They'll settle for just washing their face and brushing their teeth. It's not like where they work is high end, the restrooms aren't public so people don't overdose anymore. What a fun couple of weeks that was, cleaning up all that figurative and literal shit. Sometimes when they looked at those corpses, the former people now motionless at their feet, they envied whoever it used to be. That corpse didn't have to find itself in the bathroom, call the manager to explain itself, then clean it up for the drivers to come get and for the next future corpse to come in and make it start all over again. It's not like they wanted to die, their lease wasn't up, and death doesn't change anything. Everyone else is still here, you yourself are just gone. Not to say they were opposed to the idea of their own death, if they were to die right now that would probably be fine with that. Or they wouldn't be, who cares, they'd be dead.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" They ask themselves aloud, scoffing. They look into the bathtub, searching for more of those goddamn wingless pricks to satisfyingly squish beneath their fingers then pretend to be disgusted by the hemolymph on their hands to themselves for some reason. To save face when their non-existent roommate came in, mayhaps. But it's just them here, alone in this one bed one bath apartment. Not truly alone as their thin walls remind them as people have loud sex at night, or when they sob so violently Sprocket would convince themselves they were worried for the crying's mental health, or simply the sounds of life, but alone enough. Enough to convince themself they are the only one left in this world, a comforting and spiraling thought that leaves them in a type of disarray they never get over yet is familiar in a way the knowledge that they are not the only one still alive isn't. They huff, annoyed. "You talked first, genius."
They sigh at themselves, annoyed by the argument they are feeding into. It's at least a reminder they need to take their meds, and that they need to hope they kick in before work so they don't do this in front of the customers. Speaking of which, they need to stop just standing here and thinking confusing and long winded thoughts and just get ready for their job they could very well get terminated from. But it's not like it matters, they are in the privacy of their home. The home their job pays for. That job also pays for groceries, insurance, bills, and the train pass they need to catch the last goddamn train so they can keep having these most basic of necessities. And they are not going to catch it if they keep doing the thing that this train of thought had the express purpose of stopping, good job there Einstien. Just use the sink, dipshit.