God hates me. And now I have proof.

See, there’s this guy. Cute. Awkward. I’m hoping smart. He’s caught my attention. But, because God must hate me, the list of reasons why we’d never work is depressingly long, so I hold no hope that anything beyond requisite pleasantries will ever transpire between us. And yet this guy short-circuits my brain like no one else has. When I get within 10 feet of him, my usually coherent mind vacates the premises and leaves a bumbling, babbling half-wit in its place, believing, I guess, that I won’t notice. But I do, helplessly, as I make some type of ass of myself nearly every time I interact with him. I’m sure he’s noticed. How could he not notice? It’s like watching a walrus try to do ballet. My god, it’s not pretty.

I should be past all this by now (shakes her head)…

I am mostly content with admiring this delightfully adorkable creature from afar (that perimeter of 10+ feet seems to work), but I want even our polite and aloof-ish exchanges to paint me in a pleasant light, because, well, does anyone like to look stupid, lame, or ugly to those who don’t already know, love, and accept them? I think we all know, in all honesty, the answer is no.

But sometimes God likes to play wicked games with our fragile egos.

The other day I was at the establishment where Adorkable works. I sat in my quiet corner, all comfy-cozy and content, just me, my tea, and a book—the perfect Sunday threesome—when suddenly something from the previous night’s dinner demanded immediate dismissal. I hastened myself to the women’s restroom and the promise of relief. But a yellow cone blocked the entrance. The door was propped open. I could see a mop swabbing the floor. I looked up to see who wielded it.

And of course, because God hates me, there he was, of all people, Mr. Adorkable, completing a thorough cleaning of the bathroom.

“Dude, how much longer are you going to be?” I asked, hoping to high heaven the time was shorter than my bowels could wait.

“You can go ahead now. Just be careful of the wet floor,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. Praise be to the me-hating Lord, I thought.

“But I’ll need to go in after you to replenish the paper towels,” he added.

“Sure,” I said, all nice and calm-like. Fuck me, I thought, less nice and not calm-like. Because this was definitely not going to be a dainty visit to the can, and my bowels wouldn’t let me delay another minute.

Adorkable left. I did my doody (pun intended, my apologies). And I felt immediately relieved—for the obvious reason, but also because the odorous remains were minimal and left with the flush. I was in the clear. No mortifying moment for this girl. Maybe for once I would leave an interaction with Adorkable with my integrity—and sanity—in tact.

But then… but then… I remembered. God hates me…

I caught a glimpse of the toilet bowl. And there it was, cemented to the porcelain, in all its feculent glory. Bleak, brown, unmistakable evidence of my humanity.

Horrified, I panicked. I didn’t want to leave this behind. I couldn’t leave this behind. Adorkable was returning with paper towels and the knowledge that no one else had used the john but me. There would be no question that this “gift” was mine. I had to do something.

And so… and so… because I hate me, apparently…

I MacGyver’ed a toilet bowl brush out of paper towels and toilet seat covers. I stuck my hand suicide-ally deep into that public toilet. And I scrubbed that muddy slug off the side of the bowl. I had cleansed the crime scene. Success! …???

I left the bathroom just as Adorkable was returning. He smiled at me broadly. I smiled back and walked away like nothing ever happened, but knowing full well that something most definitely had. I had stuck my hand in a public toilet to save face in front of a guy who barely knows I exist. Unbelievable.

It was in that moment that I realized something profound about myself. Despite my professed devotion to logic and good sense, despite being a well-educated, mature woman with a job and a child, I am well and truly nuts.

And here’s the incontrovertible, undeniable, plain-as-day evidence that god hates me: I like that I’m nuts. I wouldn’t want me any other way.

So, God, thanks for hating me. It sure makes life entertaining.

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Dr. Michelle Motoyoshi is a freelance writer who likes to take an idea and turn it into something people can enjoy, discuss, or troll. While most of her writing experience is in theater, her dream is to make movies. Well, that, and to one day own a fully functional light saber. The girl dreams big…