There I was, sitting in the Butler bathrooms. My safe space: a fecal oasis amidst the chaos of Columbia. Within those walls of solitude, one can find a few elusive moments of zen in this city that never sleeps.
So naturally, I opened Instagram, ready to scroll and click while I shit a brick. I was entering flow state. Chakras were aligning. My brain was rotting in real-time.
But all of a sudden, as I opened my feed to a promising first reel (a Benson Boone backflip compilation), my immersion was shattered by the unmistakable sound of the man in the stall next to me.
But make no mistake—this was not your standard men’s room melody. In defiance of man and God and all things holy, as if on a crosstown bus, this man was watching reels in his stall on full volume. My meditative concentration was shattered, broken every five seconds by a new trending sound from his phone.
I was shocked. Horrified. Shitting myself. I had to fight back. And so I did what any rational person would: as if initiating a nuclear arms race, I turned up my own volume. But, in true Cold War fashion, he increased his volume in turn.
How could somebody be so selfish as to pollute a space as sacred as a public toilet? I found myself looking up campus security’s phone number, hoping they might step in and bring justice to this crook on the crapper.
But just as I was about to press call, I became truly cognizant of the actual sounds coming from my restroom rival. And I nearly fainted.
Banger reel after banger reel issued forth from his For You Page like a blessing from on high. Forget about Benson Boone. This was the perfect mix of political takes, red-pilled podcasts, and clips from 2000s shows. Everything was there. Was that Hasan Piker? Followed by Joe Rogan? Did I just hear five big booms?
Oh, to be the architect who built this algorithm brick by brick. What exquisite taste! Salieri had met his Mozart. I was thoroughly emasculated. Fuck leaving the bathroom insecure about your dick size—the algorithm is the true measure of a man.
In the end, I could do naught but listen in awe to this auteur, as he blessed the room with his art. Truly, all around there are symphonies for those with ears to hear them.
