I love you. You complete and support me when I need you the most. You are not too tight, I am never cramped for room. You are my shoulder to cry on when I have had dairy in a meal. You are the first thing I need to see when I have had too much to drink. You are the only thing that comes to mind when someone mentions a bathroom or toilet because you are the pinnacle of pissoir.
You are just the right height so I can plant my feet on the ground achieving optimal pressure. You allow my knees to raise just above my waist. Nor do my knees tower over, and I do not have to be on my tiptoes to touch the floor. We are a perfect fit. Your pristine porcelain physique is always fit to handle whatever I might bring you. You leave my taint untainted from the splashback. In fact, the only wetness I have to wipe away my tears when I find you mistreated.
It is truly heartbreaking to see pee on the seat, streaks in the bowl and, worst of all, shaved pubes decorating your once picture-perfect throne. I stay right by your side no matter how dirty the degenerate rubes have left you. I pick you up and restore you to your inherent beauty. A wet wipe for me and one for you. (Maybe on second thought, another one for you.)
I hate it when your attention is demanded by others. I want you all to myself. When someone else is using you I cannot even wait for you without seeming creepy. I have to resort to the lesser throne in the stall next to you. The latter always ends up happening and I look down at my feet walking towards a bad bowel movement like a hangman walks to the gallows. I want to save myself for you, but I cannot risk the social stigma of becoming identified as a stall stalker, a latrine loiterer, a porcelain peeping-tom. Society does not understand us and our star-crossed love. We are meant to be, but to others, it is forbidden.
I know you feel the same way about me. You never betray my trust. You always have protection in the form of Rest AssuredTM toilet covers. You always flush and never put me in the puckering panic one feels when the water rises from a clogged toilet. Your seat is not loose; it supports my caboose. Other stalls might not lock all the way and require holding the door closed with one hand or foot. Your stall door always locks allowing me the safety to reveal myself to you at my dirtiest. I never feel as safe as I do with you with other stalls. In other words, you are my fair lavatory.