Different IRL

Chapter 17

Shy is a Satan rating. It's something Kiki made up. Made up being the key words. So why am I burning up like I'm in hell right now? Holy crap, I'm dying of heat stroke! Shy is draped over me like an electric blanket. Is this how menopausal women feel during hot flashes? If so, I'm never getting old. Nope. Count me out. Ugh! I'm starting to get nauseated. I need to get out of this bed, stat. Plus, I'd love to make a clean getaway before he wakes up. Doubly plus, I have got to go potty.

Why couldn't the human body be designed for there to be no need to go to the bathroom? There's an en suite bathroom in Shy's room, but there's no way I'm using that one. I need privacy. I need to go number two. Okay, okay, TMI, I know. Whatever. Everyone poops. Wait, I think that's a children's book. Why am I even thinking about this right now? I better call my mother and ask her which doctor I need to schedule an appointment with because I think I'm a weirdo. I'll ask Kiki first.

Time to make a break for it. Inch by agonizingly slow inch, I squirm my body to the side of the bed til I'm on the edge, but Shy's hand is now firmly on my boob. My heart stills in my chest when I feel his fingers flex into my flesh. No, no, no. Do not hold my boob. Release the boob, mister. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Let go of my boob! Peeling his fingers off of me whilst holding my breath, I wiggle the rest of the way off of the bed and onto the floor. The floor is nice and cool, so I lay there for a minute to cool down. Lord have mercy.

When I hear a light snore, I gain my feet and go in search of another bathroom. In a house this big, there's bound to be multiple. Please let this be true. I need pooping privacy! A little spark of hopeful joy fills me when I see a door at the end of the hallway. Please don't let this be the fifth empty room I've peaked into.

The door opens with a creak, and I cringe from the noise looking back at Shy's room. Nothing. He's still sleeping. Yay! I'm going to use this room as fast as I can and get the hell out of here. Poop and dash. Is that even a thing? Probably. It's probably a thing done by jerks or by someone who doesn't like you. They poop in your house, stink it up and run out. Oh. My. God. I'm doing it again! This confirms it. I don't need a doctor. I already know I'm a psycho. No wonder I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have to open my mouth for them to know I have weird thoughts.

Maybe that's why Shy is interested in me. He's probably taken me on as a science experiment to find out why I am the way I am. He's probably talking to me as a part of his research. I wonder if he's started writing his paper yet. I hope he gets an A. Rolling my eyes, I finish up and flush the toilet.

Hmm. That sounds weird. Water is swirling, swirling, swirling. Nope. Water is rising, rising, rising. Oh fuck...me. Frantically, I look to see a plunger and grab it. Furiously, I start the plunging process. Go down, go down, go down. I'm going to die if any of my turds land on his floors. His white, marble looking floors. What would I do? What am I going to do? It's not like I have a diaper I can put the presents into. There's no diaper pails here. There's no diaper genie! Come on Universe! You bitch! I hate you! I truly hate you! I think my internal voice box just broke, screaming at this fucking universe in my damn head.

Ugh! Swallowing, I notice the water has stopped. Thank God. But I still can't unclog it. I cannot unclog my apparently enormous shit from Shy's toilet. Satan's toilet is now clogged by my big business. Shiloh Mortenson's toilet is fucked up by my butt missile. I'm defeated. Utterly gutted. I hate my life, I hate myself, I hate my brain, I hate school, I hate the universe, I hate gravity, I hate EVERYTHING.

Now what am I supposed to do? Wash my hands. Yes. First things first. I wash my hands. Next, regroup. I need to think about my options here. Option A. Leave. I can simply grab my clothes and leave. However, with this option, the poop and dash, he will know it was me that clogged his plumbing. Do I want the backlash that comes with this option? Probably not. Option B. Suck it up and tell him. Just walk right up to him and tell him I had a giant booty splasher and now his toilet is messed up. Backlash on this? Maybe. Perhaps I could rephrase this. My head falls forward and, not to my surprise, tears start falling from my eyes.