It's a frightening time we live in, isn't it?
Please consider this open letter a Public Service Announcement. Feel free to print it and leave conspicuous copies around any offending lavatories you happen to come across.
Dear mysterious woman of not-so-mysterious bodily functions,
I'm assuming, of course, that wolves raised you. Or, if you're a native Floridian like myself, then perhaps it was a family of raccoons that found your prone, naked baby body alone in the swamp. How nice that the striped and banded little critters reared and fostered you through your formative years. I can understand then why the bathroom would be a mystery to you, and I guess I should give thanks that at least the items left floating in your wake are in the toilet rather than left to fester in a corner which, no doubt, is where your foster folks would have left their droppings.
What? You're not a Horrible Raccoon Woman? Well, then perhaps you're recovering from a catastrophic scooter vs. tractor trailer collision, and thanks to years and years of therapy you are an almost fully functioning person again. If that's the case, I'm impressed. You've made a lot of progress. However, you might want to discuss your "recovery" with your physical and mental therapists; the rules of restroom etiquette haven't quite been re-imprinted on your malfunctioning brain.
Hell, maybe it's a fetish, and I'm missing the hastily scrawled post-it notes reading, "Like what you see?" that accompany every presentation of voided bowel and bladder.
Personally, when I wreck my brain trying to come up with an explanation for the "why, why, why won't she flush the fucking toilet" that keeps screaming through my mind, I keep hoping it's the raccoons that raised you. At least that way I know you're washing your hands.
Hugs and Kisses,