All I got for Christmas was Spooge

A letter to the male of the species who spooged all over the elevator keys in my building

I'm sure you have no idea what kind of commute I had today. The train from Saratoga was one hour late, hung out for an hour in Albany and then had a battery failure right outside of Yonkers. My three hour trip took a not-fun five and a half hours. I didn't complain, mind you, although I did tell one complaining passenger to "shut the fuck up" (if you only knew my sweet, innocent face). Then, much to my delight, I got a cab immediately upon exiting Penn Station to take me home.

Upon walking into my buillding, I picked up the mail and then got into the elevator.

Is that ice cream all over the floor buttons? I asked myself, until the pink (!) condom resting over the top of the button module, dripping spooge, told me otherwise.

Listen, I'm all for sex in elevators. We've all done it. But at the very least, clean up the spooge. If you used a condom, there's no reason for mess. Really. No one wants to walk up five flights of stairs with heavy bags.

While I'm glad perverts are being careful these days, don't do it on the 5th floor button please.