Hygiene is Terrifying

It was just another normal morning, and there I sat in the bathroom, upright in the cup, waiting for my daily duties.

This would usually be a calm and happy time, but the man's electricity had been out several hours, thus causing him to wake up half an hour late.

As I am waiting, I cautiously peek over the edge, my bristles quivering. There are shadows spilling from underneath the door, the tentacles menacingly crawling across the floor, waiting to devour any poor unfortunate q-tip who dares venture that low.

I look around the room, and see all of my friends cowering in fear, waiting for the dreaded experience we are all about to experience.

Silence is suddenly ripped from the room, with its arms flailing wide, like oxygen would be from a hole in a spaceship as the man bursts in.

He frantically rips open the drawer and drags Mr. Comb from his hiding place, who had tried desperately to hide behind Ms. Blowy, but alas, was found. The man whipped him this way and that over his scalp, furiously trying to calm his bed head.

I can vaguely hear Mr. Comb's screams as he is slapped in the face a million times by the man's unkempt hair over and over again.

The man drops Mr. Comb from his hand back into the drawer and I can, just before he shuts it, tell from Mr. Comb's expression that the poor hair-stylist will now have PTSD for the rest of the day.

As he's straightening his suit and tie, I brace myself for what's to come. Terrible, terrible things.

I can just see it now... a full, entire, 60-second minute of having truly revolting smells and substances rubbed all over me.

He won't even rinse me properly afterwards, so it will all probably slide down my body into the cup below, pooling until I'm left standing in it for days, until he decides to clean my poor little habitat, my place of solitude.

The man grabs me, his sausage fingers grasping around my torso, but then he glances over at the clock, shaking his head.

He sets me down on the counter and reaches for the mirror and pulls it open. All we can do is watch in horror as the man yanks out Mr. Listerine, ripping the poor alcoholic's hat off and starts sucking out his bodily fluids like a starving vampire. He fills his mouth, then slams him down on the counter.

Over the swishing noises of the man, I can hear Mr. Listerine gasping to himself, trying to recover from the vicious attack on his personal bubble.

He gargles and spits out the remainder of the bluish liquid, wiping his mouth with Mr. Cloths, who routinely has to wash himself for this very reason. No decency on the man's part whatsoever.

Then the man flicks Mr. Switchy off and runs out the door, grabbing Mr. Casey as he goes.

As the room returns to its sedentary, and preferably quiet state, the only thing I can think is that this will make for a fun but painful group-therapy topic on Wednesday.

Mr. Squirt will be so excited for all the interesting phobias my peers will have surely acquired from this horrifying experience.