When my plane landed in San Francisco I knew the torture of the last two years was over. Leaving the plane, I promised myself that I would never step foot in Florida, Alabama, or the South ever again. The South and I had developed a deep loathing for each other and if I ever had to hear ”Sweet Home Alabama” again I was going to gouge out my ear drums with rusty ice picks. I had learned my lesson, California had its faults, but despite it all, it was home.

As I weaved through the airport crowd I couldn’t stop smiling and felt spank me twice and call me naughty, happy to be home. On the downside, I only had sixty bucks to my name and I was going to have to stay with my mom until I got a job and got back on my feet, but that was okay. Though basically broke and pseudo-homeless I felt free because I no longer had to deal with being called a Yankee by people who had more toes than teeth and humidity that steamed one’s balls just about every day of the fucking day of the year.

Returning to California, I wasn’t familiar with where I was going to live. All I knew was that it was a town near Modesto, which given its reputation, was trying to be the west coast’s answer to Detroit, but I hoped that would be very temporary. It was imperative that the time I spent staying with my mom was as brief as possible because after two days in her presence we’d be at each other’s throats like two starving wolves over the last pork chop. Still, despite the obstacles I faced, I thought my life was looking up.

Being new to the area, I knew it was going to be a challenge finding a job and that $60 I had in my pocket was gone after getting a haircut and buying a button-down shirt for job interviews. Facing poverty and the tension of living with my mom, I swore I would take the first job I was offered.

After a couple of weeks of pavement pounding, I was hired by Taco Bell. My job was a whole 15 hours a week for $4.75 an hour. The position was, “Lot Person” meaning I was to clean the parking lot, stock the dining room with condiments, and clean the restrooms before the restaurant opened. I didn’t complain because I was 19 years old and filled with the kind of optimism that only village idiots and Disney characters possess. It was just cleaning; how bad could it be?

The job seemed too easy until the first time I walked into the restrooms with a mop and bucket in hand. What I saw and melt was a god awful, biohazard filled example of how some human beings are not only happy to wallow in their own filth, but they are also eager to share their filth with others. After a few days of cleaning the restrooms I came to a surprising conclusion. The women’s room was by far the scariest, dirtiest to clean.

Now, let me just say that I have always felt that women are superior to men in every single way. I truly believe that women are the apex of human evolution where men are basically just a drunken evolutionary stagger in front of our knuckle dragging ancestors. A week of cleaning restrooms and my high opinion of women was crushed a little by reality

The men’s room was always what you’d expect. The trash can was full and the sink was filthy and often caked in a disgusting film of chewing tobacco. It was not unusual for boogers to be found on the walls, doors, mirrors, and even on the ceiling (now that’s talent). Of course, being a Taco Bell restroom, the toilets were always a cross between a sewer treatment plant and Chernobyl in terms of cleanliness and sanitation. I came to theorize that the state of the commode was a direct result of the fact that Taco Bell doesn’t always sit well with everyone’s digestive plumbing. After consuming this, “Quick Serve Mexican Food” many people experience the phenomena where their Nacho Supreme, Taco Supreme etc. races through their stomach, squeals recklessly through the curves of the intestines, and finally exits the sphincter with the speed of a behind schedule Japanese bullet train. The result was never pretty and not always contained within the confines of the commode. Lucky me, I was responsible for cleaning the aftermath of this burrito-based, porcelain destroying crime against restroom sanitation.

The women’s room was different. Oh, it had an overflowing trash can and grimy sink. One difference between the lady’s and men’s room trash cans was the addition of dirty diapers (both infant and disturbingly some adult). The toilets were just as bad (one could sense distinctively feminine daintiness to the aftermath of the taco-induced spontaneous rectal purge) as their counterparts in the men’s room.

What stood out in the ladies room, what haunted my dreams, was the diabolically inappropriate disposal of feminine hygiene products. Though it didn’t happen on a daily basis, there were times the women’s room looked like someone tried to perform a dinner theater version of Stephen King’s Carrie in there. Tampons and sanitary napkins could be found on stall floors, floating in the toilets, and one time it looked like someone threw a very used sanitary napkin against a wall, repeatedly. The reason the restroom was so abused was a mystery to me. Maybe it was a raving mad femme artiste who chose to work in the medium of uterine blood instead of watercolor or oil paint. Maybe it was a disgruntled employee. All I knew was I wished the panty-liner Picasso would practice her art at the Burger King down the street.

I have a strong stomach, but I was ill equipped to deal with what I’d seen. Instead of mop, bucket, and cleaning cloth, I felt this menstrual mess required a pressure washer, followed by a sand blaster, followed by an exorcist (the power of Mr. Clean compels you) for good measure. A couple of weeks after working as a lot person, one of my first purchases with my Taco Bell wages was a pair of rubber gloves I’d seen plumbers use. There was no way I was going to use the paper-thin plastic gloves Taco Bell provided to clean, IN THERE.

Though I was somewhat traumatized by what I had experienced cleaning the Taco Bell restrooms I did learn three things. First, I should be ashamed of my fellow males because most of us have the manners and cleanliness of an undersexed chimp watching a Planet of the Apes marathon. Second, not all women are polite and emotionally mature demigoddesses. Some are downright foul. Finally, I am a bit of a masochist because it took me thirteen years of promotions, punishment, being told to get a real job, and red sauce seeping from my pores to hand in my Taco Bell uniform and go back to school.

My body thirst for yours the way a sinner does sin.

The fire in you eyes engulfs my world of color into that of one of heat and passion.

The tips of your fingers leave delicate indentations in my ivory skin.

Black and blue stain my legs, each a symbol of our love, rough and loving.

I thirst for your attention, I thirst for your touch, your body, you.

This thirst is overpowering, each time we touch is like an ice cold bead of water running down my parched tongue.

Your body mends with mine, melting and shifting in the rhythm of our silent love song.

Your lips search for mine in a way that makes my skin burn up in sin.

Your hands grasp my wrists, my hips, my hands, my hair, my neck, marking me with your invisible hand prints, making me yours.

Your eyes search mine, whispering all the promises of love.

You burn me in that the thirst of a love I have never know.

What makes you so dependent

On the trinkets in the store?...

I see belief suspended,

And it’s stretching more and more…

You read the Daily Panic

That is funneled through the pipes

It accentuates your high pursuits,

From old age to the next life…

I need eye to eye,

Skin to skin..

Necessities

You toss in the bin!…

I need mouth to mouth,

Cheek to cheek…

Heart language

Is the one I speak…

Your status is the sacred cow,

It reflects in all you buy…

Behind closed doors, in the here and now

You will wait for when pigs will fly

When the real you is revealed to all

In it’s shameful, sorry state…

With one fin revealed…hidden jaws of steel,

You’re the shark that guards your lake…

I need eye to eye,

Skin to skin..

Necessities

You toss in the bin!…

I need mouth to mouth,

Cheek to cheek…

Heart language

Is the one I speak…

Your the judge and the defendant

In this parody of whims…

Can you see me leave your courtroom

When the outlooks growing dim?…

I cannot stomach the torture

That the sanitized endure…

They’ve been backed into a corner

By these tickets they’ve procured…

I need eye to eye,

Skin to skin..

Necessities

You toss in the bin!…

I need mouth to mouth,

Cheek to cheek…

Heart language

Is the one I speak…

5/5/23

©

Bunny Villaire

It's probably cringe to some of you, but a character I've always found comfort in and related to was Ticci Toby. I have been in the creepypasta fandom since I was 11, And Toby was always the one I saw a lot of aspects of myself in. Even as I've aged, I still see parts of myself in him. We both have Tourettes, are survivors of abusive parents, and have been bullied heavily. We both are very pale and have crazy wavy dark hair and natural dark bags or shadows underneath our eyes. We have many differences, but in many ways, I see the reflection of myself in him.

It's probably cringe to some of you, but a character I've always found comfort in and related to was Ticci Toby. I have been in the creepypasta fandom since I was 11, And Toby was always the one I saw a lot of aspects of myself in. Even as I've aged, I still see parts of myself in him. We both have Tourettes, are survivors of abusive parents, and have been bullied heavily. We both are very pale and have crazy wavy dark hair and natural dark bags or shadows underneath our eyes. We have many differences, but in many ways, I see the reflection of myself in him.

What I still find difficult is that we started out well as friends but after some time passed, the real you in you I didn't know about came out of nowhere as far as I'm concerned.

Arrogant, rude, selfish, inconsiderate, cheater and thief and honestly, you became a horse's ass practically overnight. I never had a clue until then you were a Jekyll-Hyde person.

Your snide remarks to me, to my friends shows that you have no concern for other people's happiness. What the hell is wrong with you? Did you think I would just pass this off in you having a difficult day? I might have, but that day turned into two, three and then four days.

I can't take your conniving, deceiving ways any longer. I don't know how many bridges you have burnt down in the past but that stops with me.

As far as I'm concerned you can take your trashy insults with you along with a suitcase with what stuff you have and get the hell out of my apartment and out of my life. I just don't care any longer if you were to die getting hit by a truck.

Get out of my space, out of my life and pull this shit on someone else. I would say I would wish you well wherever you go but I can't.

You are dead in my eyes.

Quit fucking talking over me!

Don't hush me or shush me!

I told you it had a point and meaning, now you want me to just... What? Tell you in hindsight? I should have tried better?

Nah, man. Fuck that.

Fuck outta here with that garbage ass shit!

You wanna know what'll fucking make me apologize?

You first. You fucking first.

Until then, you can shove it where the sun don't shine.

You can take it up the ass.

I ain't apologizing till I'm good and ready when you started this shit first.

Yeah, yeah.

I get your point.

I see you.

I hear you.

I totally understand your point, but you know what?

You've been pushing it up to that point.

I ain't a goddamn saint so quit fucking acting like it.

You take and take and take the piss.

But you know what?

I'm sick of it!

What do you want from me?

What?

What the fuck was I supposed to do?

Sit there with my thumb up my ass?

Yeah, mhm. Fucking, back to you too buddy.

Ugh.

Whatever.

Tell me I bottle shit up.

You don't even give me the good goddamn space to speak.

So kiss my ass.

*sneers with a sarcastic smile*

Now I'm done. I'm off my soap box.

I'll be more agreeable.

Later.

I'm sure I will apologize first because I know you fucking won't.

What is wrong with you?

No, like, actually.

What. Is. Your. Problem.

I tried to like you, I really did, but you are so disgusting.

Inside and out.

There is no win.

I loved you, fuck, I still do, but I don't fucking like you.

I did not leave you because we had ONE argument.

I did not leave you because I can't handle criticism.

I did not leave you because I didn't want to change.

I did not leave you to pursue someone else.

I did not leave you because I was pursuing someone else while we were together.

I left you because I didn't like you.

I left you because you were my first love, not my only, and not my last.

I left you because you were not the one.

You never were, you never were going to be, and you never will be.

When we were split, I thought I missed you and your romance, but I realize now that romance was never even there.

I didn't miss your love. I was mourning our friendship.

Every day we were together, I hated you more and more.

I hated when you touched me or would tell me you loved me.

I hated when you bragged to others about our "love story."

I hated how you talked shit about the people I cared about because I hung out with them when I could have hung out with you.

When I told Lex, he said we should've been friends with benefits.

What fucking benefits?

The sex I didn't want and didn't like?

The dates you never wanted to go on?

The dinners with your family where they would sit there and talk down on me while you laughed along?

The conversations you never wanted to have with me?

The making fun of my passions?

The insulting of the people I care about?

The kisses you forced down my tongue?

The shit you would talk about me to your friends you think I never heard about?

The communication skills you didn't have?

You were the fucking worst.

I was so scared that maybe it was all in my head and that it wasn't that serious.

Maybe I was just having an episode, and I'll start liking you again after we break up.

All the things you always said were such a problem when the only problem was you.

I guess I was right though, I do like you more now that we are not together.

I like you better when I don't owe you shit.

I like you now that I'm not forced to.

I have been so happy to not be your girlfriend.

I haven't talked any shit, started any rumors, or thrown any shade.

It's clear to see that you aren't capable of that though.

This was the thing I was most worried about.

You don't know how to leave with grace.

I've heard a million rumors, and all of them have come from you.

Why does there have to be a problem?

You do not know how to be at peace.

I pray that one day you will have enough self-respect to let yourself be happy.

I know I do.

But I also know I'd be even happier if, for once in your goddamn pathetic life, you shut the fuck up.

I'm sorry, but no one wants to hear about every piece of trauma you've gone through before they know your favorite color. And we don't want to hear it in the middle of talking about something that made us happy.

You find the need to make everything about yourself, and you refuse to let someone else feel good about themselves or their accomplishments.

There is a reason no one fucking likes you. It's because you are you.

Simple.

You are an annoying piece of shit that no one wants to be around or to have to listen to.

And the sad part is, I'm not even saying that just to say it.

I have all the people you force to be around you that you think you are friends with to back me up.

Everyone who heard about what happened with us through you went straight to me for the real story.

70% of the people you hung out with stopped because they don't feel obligated to anymore because I'm no longer there begging them to be nice to you.

The rest are just there because they feel bad and are trying to be a good person because they know if they didn't hang out with you, you would be completely lonely.

They told me.

ALSO

your ass is not black. no one in your family is. even your family will say that. stop making being black your major personality point. we all know.

You stand behind me;

Blood dripping off your switchblade.

Drops of warmth splatter atop frozen cement.

Trust shattered like my rib-caged bones;

Air becomes harder to breathe.

And for what—so you could fulfill a selfish desire?

Accomplishing such a feat means,

you bruised me too many times to count.

I took it. I took it some more, and I fucking took it some more.

I should have trusted myself long ago, but didn’t,

and where did it lead me?

I let you in close enough to cut the wind from my sails,

and now my canvas runs red.

You arrogant prick. You ignorant ass!

You’ll never realize the damage you created,

as you repeatedly kicked sand into my eyes.

A drawn line that was clearly defined, vanishes,

until I am so blinded by pain,

it’s transformed into rage.

If you wanna feel my heat, I’ll show you how to burn.

If you wanna know how I feel, I’ll drown you in a perspired dream,

only to watch you dehydrate from exhaustion,

then devour your soul when you are weak and thirsty.

You poked a sleeping bear and I am now roused,

but instead of being your monster,

I will exit your life faster than a shooting star racing through your darkest sky,

and leave you empty and abandoned in a forest of nightmares,

to greet your demons and meet your devil.

They will take care of my light work,

while I sit back and enjoy the sunrise,

sipping on a cocktail of your pitiful tears.

Your taste may be awful and bitter,

but knowing that you are dried and withered because of it

is worth every gulp.

So, I drink you down slowly to savor,

your arrival in hell.

_________________________

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(And now. . . my frostbitten Indifference.)