You wake up folded awkwardly on your too-short-for-a-human-body couch around 6 in the morning. You’re dehydrated, and you really have to pee. You stretch, yawn, and rise, trying to remind your legs that they’re meant to go straight.
You go to the kitchen (which, in your tiny apartment, is pretty much the same room as the living room) and feel around in the dark for a glass in the dish rack. You open the fridge, bathing a corner of the kitchen in yellow light and the vague scent of guacamole.
You pour yourself a glass of cold water from the Brita pitcher and guzzle it, perhaps too quickly. You stuff an errant bud of weed back into its box on the counter, hunched uncomfortably between the crusty George Forman Grill and a plate of half-eaten Mexican rice. Having thus dispatched the glass of water and organized your counter, you plod to the bathroom to pee.
Only you’re not alone in the bathroom. There’s a sleeping man spread across the floor, His head propped up on your dog’s bed underneath the sink. You remember that this is your roommate’s friend from work, whose 21st birthday it was last night, who was puking in your toilet while you were entertaining the rest of the guests. He is now curled up, shrimp-like, in the vicinity of that same toilet.
You still really, really have to pee.
A) Step as best as you can over the body, do the deed, and pray the sound of peeing doesn’t wake him up to find you standing pantsless over him?
B) Hold it for 3 hours until he wakes up and leaves?
The choice is yours, boys and girls.