There is something profoundly democratic about a bathroom stall. No velvet rope, no blue check, no institutional imprimatur—not even a username. Just a flat surface, a stylus, and the uncorked bile of a writer who neither sought nor needed your permission. And while many a self-serious theorist has long since baptized digital platforms as the new agora, I submit for your approval a more humble counter-public: the wall; scratched, scribbled, and sprayed with the analog palimpsests of modern discontent. Since the digital turn, rhetorical scholars have fallen over themselves to theorize the tweet, the meme, the post, the endless scroll.…
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