ESP: Extra-Sensory Poopception

My roommate is a Bathroom Psychic.  He is the Miss Cleo of Poops (except, you know, without all of the ironic personal bankruptcy).  Between the hours of 7am and 10pm, if he's at home and I need to eliminate nitrogen, this is what I will see when I open the door of my combination bedroom, workstation and personal spanktuary:

A sad, sad, closed bathroom door.  My bladder groans in protest.  My sphincter tightens.  Have I left myself enough Hold Time to wait him out?  Or shall I make the mad dash upstairs to the other porcelain filth receptacle?  If the upstairs John is occupied, I shall perform the tinkle dance of the five-year-old.  It is not a manly dance, nor is it a proud one.

He keeps me on my toes.  Literally.

Update:  Both bathrooms were full this morning, so I went outside and marked my territory like a wolf.