It seems prudent to note, fellow faithful Hand Dryer hunter, that moments after discovering this hand dryer, indeed seconds after taking the photo you see above, the entire unit was covered in blood. My blood. My blood, and my brains. And bits of my skin and hair and eyes. Blood and brains and skin and hair and eyes and tears. All smashed and pulped up over the plastic exterior, purposefully pushed and rubbed inside the mechanisms and between the tiny cracks and around the fixtures that kept this device hanging so smugly against that toilet wall.
Miniature fragments of bone stuck out of the glooped-up, soggy brain-mess where my skull had finally surrendered to the rhythmic head-punching and fractured itself all-over-the-fucking-place. As I smeared the last of my own sticky lobes over the front and sides of the dryer, I could hear myself weeping, as though it were from a distant dream or memory. I could also discern the haunting echo of laughter, chanting and screaming, and hundreds of fists thumping against a hollow door. Just as the tumultuous hubbub became too much for me to bear, all of a sudden there came a peculiar silence.
Some weeks later I awoke, and it was at that point that I realised just how much I hate this hand dryer.
Can be found: The Eddy, Brighton, England
Auto: Yes
Rating: Two weeks in hospital + six operations
1 comment:
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