Another Awful Day

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A horrible incident leaves me with a dreaded realization.

Submitted: April 05, 2012

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Submitted: April 05, 2012

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I sprinted through the dark hallway as quickly as I could. I kept my eyes locked on the closed door ahead of me. It was at the end of the hallway and with every step I took it seemed to shrink back farther into the distance. I tried to pick up speed but found my legs were only slowing in pace. How long had I been running? My mind buzzed with uneasiness. I needed to get there; I needed to get out of that classroom before something horrible happened. Nobody else knew about the disaster that was quickly unfolding; everyone else was quietly, happily, and ignorantly back at their desks, working fervently on their macaroni pictures or cotton ball meadows or whatever crappy assignment that hippie-ass substitute had been busy describing. Nobody knew what was about to happen, and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. I checked behind me to be sure I hadn’t been followed and then quickly dipped left into the Men’s room.

 

I sat down, sliding my pants downwards in a parallel motion until they wrapped comfortably around my ankles. My bare, unprotected cheeks slapped coldly against the icy bowl. Realizing my momentary lapse in present mindedness, I surged forward clumsily in an attempt to reach the unlocked door bolt before me. I tripped, or whatever the sitting equivalent of tripping would be called, over my stretched out jeans, which had restricted my leg movement, and tumbled forward off the toilet bowl. I landed across the cold, tiled floor with a loud SMACK, looking utterly ridiculous as the moment settled. My arms were still outstretched, still looking for the lock they so miserably missed, and as a result, my belly, smeared across the floor in a most vulnerable manner, had been partially revealed from under my shirt. Dirt dusted (for lack of a better word) my bare stomach, and I was pretty sure my left foot had slipped into the toilet (never mind how).

 

As I forced myself off the unforgiving bathroom floor, I sighed in misplaced relief when I realized my foot hadn’t been dunked. A split second later, I made the realization that my foot had landed in something because it felt wet. (If it hadn’t felt wet, I wouldn’t have thought it landed in the toilet bowl in the first place.) I plopped myself back onto the toilet bowl and hoisted my left foot into my lap. My jeans moistened where I placed my shoe, and I slammed my foot back to the ground in blind frustration. A light creak followed by heavier footsteps sounded as someone entered the bathroom.

 

I forced my mysteriously damp left shoe off with my right foot, and picked it up in such a way that would best be described as retarded. I fumbled a moment in an attempt to figure out the best place to put my fingers, and spread them wide like webbing in order to grasp the whole shoe without touching it with anything but the very tips. I held the shoe between my widespread legs and leaned in to more effectively inspect it. As I took my first sniff (and as the first stinky molecules of urine entered my nostrils), my stall door swung open to reveal an upper classman named Buddy. We locked eyes for less than an instant before he jumped backwards out of the stall, and though it was such a short amount of time, I swear it felt like eons.

As his eyes met mine, time seemed to freeze; the pale green stall walls faded into the distance around me as the walls and floor and ceiling were swallowed up in a huge, black-purplish void of nothingness. It was just I, sitting on this toilet, facing this upperclassman whose name was the complete antithesis of his existence. Buddy. … Buddy.

 

“He’s not my buddy,” I thought, staring back into his eyes with an obsessive-compulsive sort of hatred. “A buddy would have knocked.”

 

The moment lasted so long that I hadn’t even realized it had ended, and that Buddy had left the bathroom completely. Even as he slammed the door shut in an awkward burst of apologetic confusion and the bare stall door separated our eye line, I still felt as if I were glaring into his eyes—no, scratch that, passed his eyes—into the very depths of his ugly soul.

 

“Fuck you, buddy,” I noted before locking the door in heavy relief. Finally, I could sit back, relax, and poop. I leaned my head back and rolled my shoulders as I allowed the minute lapse in chaotic, jumbled atomic particle collisions known as reality to sink in. I dropped one of the biggest steamers of my life during that sitting, and I was excited about it for two reasons.

 

  1. I had been constipated over the last three weeks. Not the super serious constipation you still don’t hear about in the news every Monday night, but the other kind—the beer shits kind. Y’know, you’ve been drinking way too much way too often, and so you start pooping less, and when you do poop, it’s diarrhea all over the place, except there isn’t enough of it to get all over the place. A real nasty kind of constipation.

 

  1. Said constipation left my stomach full and bloated all of the time, and summer was fast approaching. Summer = heat = my shirt off = not getting laid because of my fat lard tub of a tummy on full display. And there’s no way I am wearing a shirt to the beach. (At least I proved straight guys have a legit reason to be worried about bloating.)

 

So I was pretty stoked I’d just dropped a load of logs large enough to build Honest Abe’s log cabin, complete with slave quarters and tool shed (the hypocritical bastard). I breathed in deeply (through my mouth, of course; no one’s trying to smell the mess I’d just concocted) and let the air sit in my lungs a moment. My day had turned from a complete, utter disaster to a relaxing, quiet state of prosperity. All in one deep breathe! Eyes still closed and mind still at peace, I reached down with my hand and felt for the roll of cheap toilet paper my ass had come to loath oh-so much. (Schools are so cheap with their toilet paper; they might as well order seven thousand cheese graders and hang them up in the bathrooms. At least that would give new life to the joke, “Who cut the cheese?” No one’s in the mood for joking after using whatever no-name brand Valley High’s got waiting for us.) My hand thumped against the metal stall and probed around for the rough, almost bristly roll.

 

After what felt like ages (but was, again, only mere seconds), it came into contact with its target. But something was different. I frowned slightly as I enclosed my hand around an empty toilet paper role. Sweat beaded my forehead faster than you can say, “Sweat beaded my forehead,” and my eyes were yanked open in sheer terror. I pivoted my head with such ferocious determination in locating that empty roll that I’m pretty sure if any living thing were to be caught by my gaze, their head would explode right off their shoulders. My hand was probably covered in amoebic entrails (and is obviously Super Gaze-resistant).

 

I gasped in horror at the lack of toilet paper before me. I looked around, hoping another full role would spontaneously appear before me. I stopped a moment and thoughtfully edited my hopes. … I looked around once more, this time hoping a full role of GOOD QUALITY TOILET PAPER would appear before me; still, nothing. I guess it’s true that beggars can’t be choosers, especially when no supreme beings are listening to their initial begs in the first place.

 

I allowed my head to fall hopelessly into my waiting palms, and pouted for a good five minutes before accepting the horrible, evil truth: today was going to suck just as much, if not more so, than yesterday, and probably not as much as some horrible day that has still yet to come.


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