If no one has ever bothered to tell you this, I expect a thank-you card mailed with my address on it. (If you need some ideas, I have graciously supplied some below.)
#1---"I went from being a double-flusher to a single-flusher in a matter of seconds! Thank you, Natasha!"
#2---"I spent my money on a hooker instead of a plumber! Thank you, Natasha!"
#3---"The bottoms of my feet are feces-free! Thank you, Natasha!"
(If you really want to please me, you will choose number 3. I am beyond fond of alliteration, as you can infer from the title of this post, as well as the word, "feces;" it makes me think of babies, and I have no idea why.)
(Okay, it just hit me: "fetus." Sounds like, "feces." Moving on.)
Before I continue with the near-flood I was more-than-nearly responsible for, I must first confess something. (After reading aforementioned confession, I ask that you please do not see me as a deranged being, but moreso as as an honest being.)
Immediately after The Second Flush Fiasco, my initial reaction was not to halt the overflow, or warn my roommates of the mess they would find upon entering the bathroom, or alert the maintenance men to fix the toilet, or shove my fist in the commode in hopes of stopping the catastrophe single-handily (literally! HA. HA. HA!), or to even clean up my own body waste. Instead, I instantaneously booked it to my computer, ready to blog about it.
Remember now: honest, not deranged, honest.
However, within 11 seconds of sitting at my desk, it hit me that what I was about to do was very fucked up and shall not be conducted until I mopped my bodily fluids up from the floor, the same floor that 2 others have to often walk on. (Ah...these continuous good deeds of mine never cease to surprise me.) But before I did any of this whole "cleaning" thing I'm giving a go this year, I had to alert my roommates of my accidental addition to the tile floor.
"HEY UHHHH THE TOILET HAS FLOODED YES YES IT HAS FLOODED I FLOODED IT IT WAS ME IT WAS ME I KNOW I KNOW BUT I'M GOING TO CLEAN IT SO DON'T WORRY NO ONE PANIC NO ONE PANIC NO ONE SHOULD BE PANICKING RIGHT NOW I HAVE THIS ALL UNDER CONTROL JUST WHATEVER YOU DO DO NOT GO IN THERE SERIOUSLY DO NOT."
They merely laughed.
Good sign? Bad sign? Is my body waste on the floor of our dorm really a laughing matter? Don't get me wrong here - I am in NO way complaining that they find my secretion humorous. Hey! I'll chuckle at my chips any time! That's JUST what I do, in fact! As soon as I've completed my toilet task, I'll give the final product a good, long glance and just start bursting into a fit of giggles! "Hee hee ho, look what came out of Natasha's ass TODAY!" Where do you think the phrase, "shits and giggles" came from? I'm just shocked that other people find it amusing, too. Well, that's what I'm here for: for your amusement, and apparently, so is my fecal matter.
So I hopped right to it, commando style. (By "commando style" I do not mean 'naked style;' I mean 'military style.' Just to clear that up. I'm sure there are people who walk around their dorm in the nude, but I am NOT one of those people. My dorm is freezing, first of all; second of all, our windows are always open to the public eye, and third of all, I really shouldn't even be explaining why I don't prance around in my birthday suit in a place I share with two others because that's just rude. I doubt either of them want to see my ass. Not that there's this like hidden secret about my ass. Not that it's like deformed or anything. Not that I would even tell you if it was. Not that it is, though. Not that YOU KNOW WHAT NEVERMIND IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. Moving on.) Where was I? Right. I hopped to that shit and went to get the mop.
We have no mop.
That wouldn't quite work...
Neither would that...
They were in my car...
That's just fucked up...
Looks like that was my only option.
After unrolling an ENTIRE roll of paper towels and laying them on the floor, I decided to leave and check back on their progress in about 15 minutes. (15 minutes I could spend writing about it...NO NATASHA. NO. IT'S ALL ABOUT SELF-CONTROL.)
And after 15 minutes...well, let me just say this: WHOEVER THE FUCK IT WAS who referred to paper towels as the "quicker-picker-upper" was seriously mistaken.
Damn commercials. Damn them all to HELL.
Remember when I told you to think of me as honest and not deranged? Screw what I said. After reading what you are about to read, you're going to think I am VERY deranged and quite honestly (since I'm such an honest person), I don't blame you for it.
The next morning, I went into the bathroom, pushed the paper towels all to one corner (with my foot) into a big, lumpy, sopping-wet, odor-filled, don't-you-dare-touch-it-unless-you-want-hepatitis-C, pile. And left it there.
It's still there.
Like, right now. It's there.
And will continue to be there.
And I don't know when exactly I will decide to make it not there.
But as of now, it's there.
You may be wishing I kept such a story to myself. I may be wishing this same thing a couple days from now, when I've actually thought about what I heedlessly decided to share with the world about what went wrong the other day in regards to my bowel movements. But then I thought, why not? Everyone uses the bathroom, just like everyone eats. Would I refuse to share a story about me eating? Nooooooo. So why keep this wonderful tidbit of what could be my future autobiography to myself? Why NOT let everyone know about it? And yes, I know you wanted to know about it; don't even try and lie. So after pondering this, I decided to administer my tale, and I don't regret it. Because you know what? Shit happens.