Leo, a Bwogger no stranger to calamity, takes you through another Columbia Horror Story set in….LERNER!
11:30am. Saturday. Lerner 3rd floor bathroom. I broke off from my friend group to take a dump. I splurged on Eggs Benedict at Community and on the way back to my Wien single, I could NOT hold it any longer. I ran up the Dr. Seuss-like stairways of Lerner to the nearest toilet. I pushed the door so damn hard, it made a mark in the wall. I stumbled into a stall, not the handicapped one because I’m a good fucking person.
[Fast forward a few minutes because I like to keep certain things private]
I have done my ‘business,’ so to speak. I reach for the side of the toilet seat for some papye twalet but to my HORROR…there is not a scrap of toilet paper. I frantically claw at the dispenser, cutting my fingers on the sharp ends. I am hysterical. I look around. I scream for help. Because of the nature of my ‘business,’ I am unable to put my underwear/pants on and move on to another restroom. I chance it and cover my genitals with my right hand, ambling towards the next stall while keeping an eye on the door. Luckily, no one disturbs my X rated version of musical chairs. Not a single stall has toilet paper! I am stuck in a linoleum and white tile lined purgatory.
I frantically seated myself back on the original toilet seat, regretting the Hollandaise sauce that wrought havoc on my lactose intolerant stomach. I was desperate. I think I might have done a satanic ritual with my thigh hairs in an attempt to get some sort of supernatural help in my moment of need. However, I was growing uncomfortable by the moment and like Indiana Jones, I had to think fast. The walls were figuratively closing in on me.
Suddenly my phone buzzed. Bazinga! I’ll call a friend to bring me toilet paper. Good! It’ll be easy. No one was coming into this bathroom to help anyway. It was bare. Not even a tumbleweed. I crooned to Siri, “Call Arielle?” Nothing. Siri, likely disgusted, was giving me the silent treatment. Then, it happened. My phone froze. No contacts, no facebook messenger, no snapchat, no nothing. Just the dial pad. Even more in need, an unsettling sensation in my posterior, I turned to the back of my phone. Lo and behold was the back pocket, featuring none other than the Public Safety phone number. Do I dare? What other choice do I have? Soil my pants, underpants and risk walking by that one guy I *actually* like at this school? I dial away. It rings.
[Again, for the sake of brevity and also sparing you the awkward back and forth of that conversation, I will keep this section redacted (the theme of the week apparently)]
First, I hear the walkie-talkie, the heavy footsteps and the muffled laughing. The Public Safety officer addresses me by name. Slides the toilet paper roll underneath the stall. Rushes out before I have the chance to thank him for coming to my aid in my time of need. Possibly out of habit, he shuts the switch. Darkness. I am left to wipe in the dark, a darkness unable to hide my shame and regret.