Why I Hate Public Restrooms

I hate public restrooms.  I try to avoid them as much as possible, and it is not just because of the smell, lack of sanitation and toilet seat covers, or even the natural adhesives that the tile kindly applies to my shoes.  Those are expected norms of the restroom experience.
What I don't care for, is how everything has to be automatic for my convenience and sanitary precautions.  

For example: say you walk into a bathroom.You begin to do your business. Suddenly, the automatic toilet begins to flush and you haven't finished yet.  With all the violent swirling water, you get your business all over yourself.  Cursing impatiently in your head, you finish what you started.

Next, you go to wash your hands.  You approach the sink and thrust your hands underneath the faucet.  You wait.  Nothing happens.  You move to another sink.  This time, ice cold water bursts forth like a geyser. With no direct stream path, water splashes all over you adding to the embarrassing amount of business you already have on your pants.  Well, you think to yourself, now I can honestly say the sink got water all over my pants.

Because there is no way to change the pressure or the temperature of the water, you stand as far back from the sink as your arms allow you,  reach for the water, and cringe.  After wetting your hands, you place your hand under the automatic soap dispenser.  Nothing happens.  As you reach for the dispenser on the other side of the sink, you hear the first dispenser as it excretes soap onto the floor.  Reaching back to the first dispenser, you get an unnecessary amount of foul smelling soap on your hands that, despite your best efforts at scrubbing in the icy  water, leaves a milky residue in the creases of your numb palms.

You hear the second dispenser exude soap on the floor as you approach the automatic paper towel dispenser.  While pausing to look at the second dispenser, you find you are now cursing under your breath.  Because you are distracted with your cursing, you do not hear the sensor of the automatic air freshener fastened to the wall as it prepares to channel a distasteful tropical fruit disaster directly into your unexpecting face. 

You bite your tongue viciously in an effort to stop yourself from screaming what you are thinking, but finding it impossible, express yourself perhaps too loudly.  Your words are jumbled and confusing even to your own ears as your throbbing tongue attempts to paint your elegant list of vocabulary in the air.  The tropical volcanoes that were once your boring and unscented eyes cloud your vision with streams of saline that now flow unashamedly down your enraged mountain of a face.

When you blindly wave your hand in front of the paper towel demon, a paper towel the width of toilet paper creeps out of the demon's mouth.  Not being sufficiently large to dry your hands thoroughly, you wave back and forth for a long ten seconds so the demon can reload.  It spews out another negligible amount of towel that still is not enough.  Wave, dry, repeat.  For better results, follow steps one through three.

Your journey now ends as you face the one object in the room that you absolutely did not want to touch, and is ironically not automatic: the doorknob.