It was about 2 a.m., the time between when I eat a midnight snack and a pre-bedtime snack. As I brushed my teeth in my dorm bathroom, pretending like I wouldn’t be eating a cookie in my bed 20 minutes later, my eyes started to wander.

I saw a cockroach scurry across the floor, which I attempted to crush with my foot. Alas, it was all in vain, because either I’m as weak as a baby who never goes to the gym, or because that cockroach had Superman strength mixed with the fortitude of a baby who actually does go to the gym.

Then I heard a flush, and one of my floor mates emerged after finishing his business in the bathroom — you know, the bathroom kind of business. I don’t make it a habit of mine, but I accidentally made weird eye contact with him. I quickly looked away. He then proceeded to not wash his hands.

Let that sink into your brain like the waste follicles that are slowly sinking into his skin.

Now, I love to complain. I complain about everything I possibly can. If your shirt’s too bright, I complain that it’s screaming at me. If you’re smacking your lips loudly, know that I will complain about you when I get out of earshot. Essentially, I’m the perfect combination of an old man and a teenage girl, equal parts grumpiness and cattiness.

And yes, often my tirades are unjustified. I know that I’ll never rid the world of loud talkers or people that express their love for the movie “Shark Tale.” For the record, it’s a lesser “Finding Nemo” whose only cultural footprint should be that carwash song. But the simple act of washing your hands after going to the bathroom is an area where I need to take a stand.

I’ve watched enough Discovery Channel to know urine is essentially sterile — hence the many reality shows featuring men drinking said waste product. But that’s a personal choice to indulge in and probably something to keep secret, lest you get to R. Kelly status.

OK, maybe that wasn’t the best example.

But I thought, in my heart of hearts, that America’s educational system was covering this in school. What do people think the sinks in the bathroom are for? Are they simply afraid of discovering a “Chamber of Secrets” style dungeon?

To make it even worse, my hygiene enemy, whom I’ve nicknamed “McPee Hands,” doesn’t even wash his hands after he does the other option in the toilet. And he’s not the only one. He’s definitely the most frequent offender, but the fact that there are so many people who aren’t afraid of the possibilities of pink eye — or worse — is horrifying.

A day passed, and I again found myself between midnight snack (pie) and pre-bedtime snack (more pie). Then, like déjà vu, McPee Hands walked into the room. As always, he finished his business and refused to abide by hygiene norms that even Taco Bell workers follow.

I made the snap decision to ask McPee Hands if he knew why the sinks only had hot water. McPee Hands walked over to the sink and ran his hands under the faucet. He concluded that he didn’t know what I was talking about.

Victory was mine. Yeah, it was a minor victory in my overall crusade for people to act at the most basic levels of human decency. But it still felt good.

The next morning, I entered the bathroom like a king, only to be greeted with vomit in the sink. And so a new battle begins.

Christian Unkenholz is a sophomore public relations and political science major. He can be found lecturing people on the importance of sneezing like a vampire. His column appears every Thursday in Pulp. He can be reached at cdunkenh@syr.edu.

Published on October 17, 2013 at 1:03 am