Bathroom Flush Quotes

Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon. Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later. Let me do it right for once, for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer. Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station, smiling in a way that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade, up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things, I looked out the window and said This doesn’t look that much different from home, because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you’re so great, you do it— here’s the pencil, make it work … If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again, years later, in the chlorinated pool. I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

Wow, Carter. You've got a HUGE wiener." Suddenly, Gavin being in the bathroom with me didn’t seem so bad. If only he could have been in the bathroom with me in eighth grade and passed that little tidbit around for Penny Frankles to hear, I might not have gone to the eight grade graduation dance solo. I finished pissing, zipped up my pants and flushed the toilet, all while trying not to pat myself on the back. Yeah, I had a huge wiener. You bet your sweet ass I did. I almost needed a wheelbarrow to carry it around. And because a toddler said it, it must have been true. We got back to the table and I couldn't keep the shit-eating grin off of my face.

So are you comin' back with me or what?" Megan lifted her head and sighed. "I have a few conditions." "Shoulda known," Doug said, rolling his eyes. "First of all, I did not sign up for a truck stop bathroom," Megan said. "You guys need to start cleaning up after yourselves in there. No more blood, no more hair, no more stains that I don't even want to identify." "All right, all right," Doug said. "That it?" "Hardly," Megan said. "I want a hands-off rule on all my stuff. Including my bike." "Okay..." "And I want everyone to stop calling me Megan C Cups behind my back." Doug's jaw went slack as he flushed. "How did you know about that?" Megan raised her eyebrows. "All right, fine.

Xhex couldn't stop herself from torturing them both. She sent him a mental scene, drilling the image right into his head : the two of them in a private bathroom, him up on the sink and leaning back, her with one foot planted on the counter, his sex deep in hers, the two of them panting. While he stared accross the crowded room, John's mouth parted, and the flush on his cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the orgasm that was no doubt pounding up his shaft. God, she wanted him. His buddy, the readhead, snapped her out of the madness. Blaylock came back to the table with three beers hanging from their necks, and as he took a look at John's hard, sexep-up face, he stopped short and glanced over at her in surprise. Shit. Xhex waved off the bouncers who were coming up to her and walked out of the VIP section so fast, she nearly bowling-pinned a waitress. Her office was the only place that was safe, and she headed there at a dead run.

We had never taken a shower together. We had never even been in the same bathroom together. "Don't flush," I'd said, "I want to look." What I saw brought out strains of compassion, for him, for his body, for his life, which suddenly seemed so frail and vulnerable. "Our bodies won't have secrets now," I said as I took my turn and sat down. He had hopped into the bathtub and was just about to turn on the shower. "I want you to see mine," I said. He did more. He stepped out, kissed me on the mouth, and, pressing and massaging my tummy with the flat of his hand, watched the whole thing happen.

Freshly brainwashed from rehab, I carry the bottle into the bathroom. I hold it up to the light. See the pretty bottle? Isn't it beautiful? Yes, it's beautiful. I unscrew the cap and pour it into the toilet. I flush twice. And then I think, why did I flush twice? The answer, is of course, because I truly do know myself. I cannot be sure I won't attempt to drink from the toilet, like a dog.

I hadn't realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn't get out of there. A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, "That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy." I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises. THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET! Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.

When I flush the toilet in my bathroom, it becomes stopped up with Kleenex, and blood clouds the water and I put down the lid, because there’s nothing else for me to do.

Toilets in modern water closets rise up from the floor like water lilies. The architect does all he can to make the body forget how paltry it is, and to make man ignore what happens to his intestinal wastes after the water from the tank flushes them down the drain. Even though the sewer pipelines reach far into our houses with their tentacles, they are carefully hidden from view, and we are happily ignorant of the invisible Venice of shit underlying our bathrooms, bedrooms, dance halls, and parliaments.

Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away.

and the girl and I get into her car and drive off into the hills and we go to her room and I take off my clothes and lie on her bed and she goes into the bathroom and I wait a couple of minutes and then she finally comes out, a towel wrapped around her, and sits on the bed and I put my hands on her shoulders, and she says stop it and, after I let her go, she tells me to lean against the headboard and I do and then she takes off the towel and she's naked and she reaches into the drawer by her bed and brings out a tube of Bain De Soleil and she hands it to me and then she reaches into the drawer and brings out a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses and she tells me to put them on and I do. And she takes the tube of suntan lotion form me and squeezes some onto her fingers and then touches herself and motions for me to do the same, and I do. After a while I stop and reach over to her and she stops me and says no, and then places my hand back on myself and her hand begins again and after this goes on for a while I tell her that I'm going to come and she tells me to hold on a minute and that she's almost there and she begins to move her hand faster, spreading her legs wider, leaning back against the pillows, and I take the sunglasses off and she tells me to put them back on and I put them back on and it stings when I come and then I guess she comes too. Bowie's on the stereo and she gets up, flushed, and turns the stereo off and turns on MTV. I lie there, naked, sunglasses still on and she hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe myself off then look through a Vogue that's lying by the side of the bed. She puts a robe on and stares at me. I can hear thunder in the distance and it begins to rain harder. She lights a cigarette and I start to dress ....

I have always been paranoid about waking people up. When I was younger and would come home late, I would take about twenty minutes to get from the driveway into my bed. I tiptoed up the walk, slid my house key in the door very slowly, took my shoes off outside, and crept upstairs to the bathroom like a burglar. Often I wouldn’t even flush until morning, preferring to let my business simmer overnight rather than wake somebody up with the sound of it zooming through walls on its way out of the house.

But in doing so---moving forward...---he's still dealing with the past. It's always strung out behind us, innit, attached to our arses like a roll of toilet paper we trail out of the bathroom, pointing the way to the giant shite we just took. It doesn't matter if we flushed it down; Everyone still knows what we did there. So its fine to say it's all done and you have no connection with the past, that you're a new person every second, but silly in my view to pretend that person isn't made of the old one.

the office. Unable to wait, he went to the bathroom but didn’t flush the toilet. To warn us of the unpleasant odor, he tacked a sign to the bathroom door: “RSVP—gas!” Of course, he meant “Danger—gas!” but he thought “RSVP” looked more elegant. He didn’t have the faintest idea that it meant “please reply.” Yours,

There was only one thing left to do: that authentic-sounding flush with which every junkie leaves a bathroom, hoping to deceive the audience that crowds his imagination.

I'm the bathroom master I'm a real bowl blaster Don't mess with me 'Cause I can mess it up faster With just one flush I can make a toilet gush When my sister cleans it up I just turn her to mush!

I have a system with bathrooms. I spend a lot of time in them. They are sanctuaries, public places of peace spaced throughout the world for people like me. When I pop into Aaron’s, I continue my normal routine of wasting time. I turn the light off first. Then I sigh. Then I turn around, face the door I just closed, pull down my pants, and fall on the toilet— I don’t sit; I fall like a carcass, feeling my butt accommodate the rim. Then I put my head in my hands and breathe out as I, well, y’know, piss. I always try to enjoy it, to feel it come out and realize that it’s my body doing something it has to do, like eating, although I’m not too good at that. I bury my face in my hands and wish that it could go on forever because it feels good. You do it and it’s done. It doesn’t take any effort or any planning. You don’t put it off. That would be really screwed up, I think. If you had such problems that you didn’t pee. Like being anorexic, except with urine. If you held it in as self-punishment. I wonder if anyone does that? I finish up and flush, reaching behind me, my head still down. Then I get up and turn on the light. (Did anyone notice I was in here in the dark? Did they see the lack of light under the crack and notice it like a roach? Did Nia see?) Then I look in the mirror. I look so normal. I look like I’ve always looked, like I did before the fall of last year. Dark hair and dark eyes and one snaggled tooth. Big eyebrows that meet in the middle. A long nose, sort of twisted. Pupils that are naturally large—it’s not the pot— which blend into the dark brown to make two big saucer eyes, holes in me. Wisps of hair above my upper lip. This is Craig. And I always look like I’m about to cry. I put on the hot water and splash it at my face to feel something. In a few seconds I’m going to have to go back and face the crowd. But I can sit in the dark on the toilet a little more, can’t I? I always manage to make a trip to the bathroom take five minutes.

But in doing so—moving forward, in Greta’s mind—he’s still dealing with the past. It’s always strung out behind us, innit, attached to our arses like a roll of toilet paper we trail out of the bathroom, pointing the way to the giant shite we just took. It doesn’t matter if we flushed it down: Everyone still knows what we did there. So it’s fine to say it’s all done and you have no connection with the past, that you’re a new person every second, but silly in my view to pretend that person isn’t made of the old one.

I'm up there trying to do my Chore. I've got the men's bathroom. There's something... Pat there's something in the toilet up there. That won't flush. The thing. It won't go away. It keeps reappearing. Flush after flush. I'm only here for instructions. Possibly also protective equipment. I couldn't even describe the thing in the toilet. All I can say is if it was produced by anything human then I have to say I'm worried. Don't even ask me to describe it. If you want to go up and have a look, I'm 100% confident it's still there. It's made it real clear it's not going anywhere.

In the first bathroom we visited, the shower worked normally, but the toilet was on the ceiling, the water staying in the bowl in defiance of gravity. “What happens if you flush it?” I wondered. Annabeth laughed. “Percy, I’ve seen what happens when you mess with plumbing. If you want to try that, wait until I’m out of the room.

In the bathroom mirror there was even a smudge of dirt on my neck, and I wiped it off in a hurried flush, the cheap paper towel so rough against my skin that I looked for a scrape in my reflection and then, meeting my own eyes, stood for a sec and tried to figure, like all girls in all mirrors everywhere, the difference between lover and slut.

Lunch had been at a McDonald’s in Santa Barbara. It had been so clean. It had smelled like food. It had sounded happy and alive. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed. Water ran in the sink. He had passed a trash can on the way back to his table and stopped just to look at it. It was full of food. Leftover burgers, the last few fries, smears of ketchup on cardboard. He’d had to hold back tears when he saw it. “Candy bar?” Vicky asked, and held a Snickers out to him. At that moment they slowed to turn off the highway and head cautiously, carefully, through recently bulldozed streets, toward the town plaza. That’s where the McDonald’s was. His McDonald’s. A candy bar. People had killed for less.

Arnie pulls at my T-shirt. I shove his hand away. He pushes down the toilet handle and the bathroom fills with that flush sound. Tucker says, "You taking a dump?" "No." "Liar. I heard the flush. You were taking a dump." "But I..." "I just wish you'd admit it. We got to be honest with each other." "But..." "I heard the flush, Gilbert. You can't fool Tucker Van Dyke.

I tell Dylan I have to go to the bathroom. I shut the door and try to pee, but my dick's already sticking straight up at the ceiling. Great. I'm sure she caught that minor detail. We haven't even kissed yet. I shake my head and do my best to pee. I pull my pants back up, trying to make my hard-on less obvious. I stare at myself in the mirror and splash cold water on my face to calm down. My face flushed. I concentrate on one critical thing. Last, Gray. You've got to make it last. No two pumps, you're done. Don't be that guy. You're stronger than that. Think sports. Try to name every candy bar you can. Think about anything but what her body feel like, because as soon as you let yourself go there, It's over. Enough with the pep talk. I take a deep breath. This is it. It's what you were born to do.

somebody had taken an old disk of McCartney and the Wings - as in the historical Beatles's McCartney - taken and run it through a Kurtzweil remixer and removed every track on the songs except the tracks of poor old Mrs. Linda McCartney singing backup and playing tambourine. ... Poor old Mrs. Linda McCartney just fucking could not sing, and having her shaky off-key little voice flushed from the cover of the whole slick multitrack corporate sound and pumped up to solo was to Gately unspeakably depressing - her voice sounding so lost, trying to hide and bury itself inside the pro backups' voices; Gately imagined Mrs. Linda McCartney - in his Staff room's wall's picture a kind of craggy-face blonde - imagined her standing there lost in the sea of her husband's pro noise, feeling low esteem and whispering off-key, not knowing quite when to shake her tambourine: C's depressing CD was past cruel, it was somehow sadistic-seeming, like drilling a peephole in the wall of a handicapped bathroom.

It’s our bad luck to have teachers in this world, but since we’re stuck with them, the best we can do is hope to get a brand-new one instead of a mean old fart. New teachers don’t know the rules, so you can get away with things the old-timers would squash you for. That was my theory. So I was feeling pretty excited to start fifth grade, since I was getting a rookie teacher—a guy named Mr. Terupt. Right away, I put him to the test. If the bathroom pass is free, all you have to do is take it and go. This year, the bathrooms were right across the hall. It’s always been an easy way to get out of doing work. I can be really sneaky like that. I take the pass all the time and the teachers never notice. And like I said, Mr. Terupt was a rookie, so I knew he wasn’t going to catch me. Once you’re in the bathroom, it’s mess-around time. All the other teachers on our floor were women, so you didn’t have to worry about them barging in on you. Grab the bars to the stalls and swing. Try to touch your feet to the ceiling. Swing hard. If someone’s in the stall, it’s really funny to swing and kick his door in, especially if he’s a younger kid. If you scare him bad enough, he might pee on himself a little. That’s funny. Or if your buddy’s using the urinal, you can push him from behind and flush it at the same time. Then he might get a little wet. That’s pretty funny, too. Some kids like to plug the toilets with big wads of toilet paper, but I don’t suggest you try doing that. You can get in big trouble. My older brother told me his friend got caught and he had to scrub the toilets with a toothbrush. He said the principal made him brush his teeth with that toothbrush afterward, too. Mrs. Williams is pretty tough, but I don’t think she’d give out that kind of punishment. I don’t want to find out, either. When I came back into the classroom after my fourth or fifth trip, Mr. Terupt looked at me and said, “Boy, Peter, I’m gonna have to call you Mr. Peebody, or better yet, Peter the Pee-er. You do more peein’ than a dog walking by a mile of fire hydrants.

I’m not the most confident person when it comes to administering first aid, but I am probably the most germ conscious. I hope you close the lid of the toilet when you flush. If you don’t, the swirl of the water breaking up your poop sends millions of tiny poop molecules flying about the bathroom. And you know where they like landing best? On your toothbrush! And speaking of toothbrushes, what can be more horrible than going into the bathroom and seeing the bristles from your brush touching the bristles from your partner’s brush! My God, you can almost see those germs running from theirs to yours!

snuck into the vacant copilot’s room next to our victim, carrying a bucket with the sea cucumber. I crept through the room, being careful not to make any noise. I removed the sea cucumber and slid it into our victim’s toilet, being careful not to splash any water. The sea cucumber looked like a world record, giant turd. It was jet black, about fourteen inches long and thick around as a coke can. Neither of our pilots was a scuba diver and I guessed they would never suspect the giant turd was really a sea creature. The humongous turd impersonator lay motionless in the bottom of the toilet bowl, leaking a faint reddish dye. When they discovered the state of the toilet the pilots began a heated argument, blaming each other for not flushing the disgusting mound of excrement. This was a serious breach of etiquette for an officer and gentleman. The hapless pilots finally tried flushing and the toilet backed up and flooded the bathroom. They had to summon a plumber who immediately recognized the turd for what it was, a sea cucumber, and said it must have somehow crawled up through the pipes. Neither pilot ever guessed they were the victims of a practical joke. The prank was flawless and I still have the picture of the cucumber in their toilet.

Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?” I jump up too fast. “Sure. Just one? Do you—of course you need something to write with. Sorry. Here.” I grab him a paper from my deskdrawer and one of my myriad pencils, and he uses the first Children of Hypnos book as a flat surface to write on. When I’m sure he’s writing something for me to read right now, I say, “I thought you only needed to do that when other people were around?” He etches one careful line after the next. He frowns, shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s . . . tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares. Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction. Can I kiss you? “Um,” is a delightfully complex word. “Um” means “I want to say something but don’t know what it is,” and also “You have caught me off guard,” and also “Am I dreaming right now? Someone please slap me.” I say “um,” then. Wallace’s entire head-neck region is already flushed with color, but the “um” darkens it a few shades, and goddammit, he was nervous about asking me and I made it worse. What good is “um” when I should say “YES PLEASE NOW”? Except there’s no way I’m going to say “YES PLEASE NOW” because I feel like my body is one big wired time bomb of organs and if Wallace so much as brushes my hand, I’m going to jump out of my own skin and run screaming from the house. I’ll like it too much. Out of control. No good. I say, “Can I borrow that pencil?” He hands me the pencil, again without looking. Yes, but not right now. I know it sounds weird. Sorry. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that. Surprising me with it would probably work better. I am giving you permission to surprise me with a kiss. This is a formal invitation for surprise kisses. I don’t like writing the word “kiss.” It makes my skin crawl. Sorry. It’s weird. I’m weird. Sorry. I hope that doesn’t make you regret asking. I hand the paper and pencil back. He reads it over, then writes: No regret. I can do surprises. That’s it. That’s it? Shit. Now he’s going to try to surprise me with a kiss. At some point. Later today? Tomorrow? A week from now? What if he never does it and I spend the rest of the time we hang out wondering if he will? What have I done? This was a terrible idea. I’m going to vomit. “Be right back,” I say, and run to the bathroom to curl up on the floor. Just for like five minutes. Then I go back to my room and sit down beside Wallace. As I’m moving myself into position, his hand falls over mine, and I don’t actually jump out of my skin. My control shakes for a moment, but I turn in to it, and everything smooths out. I flip my hand over. He flexes his fingers so I can fit mine in the spaces between. And we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, with our hands resting on the bed between us. It’s not so bad

I grab one of the lanterns we’ve left in the mudroom and head toward my parents’ room, expecting Ryder to follow. But he pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess I should…you know. The guestroom. Should be safe upstairs now.” I just stare at him, trying to decide if he’s serious. But then he reaches for the banister, and I realize he is. “You don’t have to,” I say, my cheeks flushing hotly. “I mean…I’m fine with you down here. With me.” I can’t believe I just said that. But, jeez, everything’s so awkward now. “You sure?” he asks, taking a step toward me. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I’m…you know, getting used to having you around. Anyway,” I say breezily, “we might get some more severe stuff tonight. Probably shouldn’t take any chances.” Oh my God, I’m practically begging him to stay with me. What is wrong with me? “You’re probably right,” Ryder says, relenting. I try to think of something clever to say, but come up blank. So I turn and stalk off to my parents’ room instead. Ryder finds me in the bathroom, brushing my teeth with bottled water. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching me. Our gazes meet in the mirror--which, of course, makes gooseflesh rise on my skin. I spit in the sink and take a swig of water to rinse. “Jem?” I turn, the marble countertop digging into my back. He moves toward me, closing the distance between us. I sway slightly on my feet as he reaches for me, his dark eyes filled with heat. His gaze sweeps across my face, warming my skin, making my breath catch in my throat. Oh man.

Rosie!” Scarlett shouts. There’s fear in her voice, mixed with fury. I grit my teeth. My sister flings the bathroom door open, a hazy form behind the white shower curtain. “What happened? Are you okay?” she demands, voice dark enough to intimidate a wolf. “I . . .” Scarlet,” I say, cutting the water off. I sigh and reach for a towel. A voice interrupts my movement. “Look, Scarlett, come on, it was an accident—” Silas rounds the corner. I freeze, arm outstretched and still a few inches from the towel, body half exposed around the curtain. His mouth drops, cheeks flush, and he immediately whirls around to face the hallway. “Sorry, Rosie,” he said quickly. He puts his hands into his pockets and bounces on his heels. My face turns bright red, goose bumps scattering across my arms from both the cold and the shivery feeling Silas is giving me.

A small bathroom was attached to the room. Hassan was very proud of it, because he had recently installed a flush tank and western-style potty. I complimented him on the potty and said it looked very comfortable. But what really took my fancy was the bathroom window. It hadn’t been opened for some time, and the glass panes were caked with dirt. But when finally we got it open, the view was remarkable. Below the window was a sheer drop of two or three hundred feet. Ahead, an open vista, a wide valley, and then the mountains striding away towards the horizon. I don’t think any hotel in town had such a splendid view. And this little bathroom had it all. I could see myself sitting for hours on that potty, enraptured, enchanted, having the valley and the mountains all to myself. Almost certain constipation of course, but I would take that risk.

Let's start with the basics." He pulled a worn Helios-Ra guidebook of the top of the pile of books next to his laptop. "You got one of these in your orientation packet, right?" "I already had a copy," I replied. I'd picked Kieran's pocket this summer for it, to be precise. I had my own profile in the cream-colored pages. Tyson flushed. "Oh. Right. I forgot you're in it." "I'm famous," I agreed blandly. "Just this morning someone locked me in a bathroom stall." He flushed even redder. "Are you blushing?" He cleared his throat. "No." I grinned. "You are adorable." "Uh ..." "Relax, I'm dating the undead, remember." "Stop teasing poor Tyson," Jenna said from behind me. I tilted my head to look up at her. "But it's fun." Jenna hiked her hip on the table and swung her sneaker-clad foot. "You're going to give him a coronary." We both turned to grin at him, waiting for his retort. He just looked slightly nauseated.

Here is an interesting side note about burglary psychology. Many burglary reports, after itemizing a list of stolen possessions, note that the burglar has defecated in the house, sometimes in a corner, on the floor, and sometimes in the bathroom, and sometimes in the shrubbery outside, beneath the broken window. I remember one burglary victim telling me, “He took all the stereo equipment in the den, ransacked the bedroom and then took a shit in the bathroom but didn’t flush. I came home and found a big turd floating in the toilet!” It almost seems to add insult to injury, doesn't It? Actually, there is a physical reason for this. Burglarizing a house causes the burglar to produce stress hormones, like Noradrenaline, corisol and adrenaline. Often an extreme amount of stress hormones can be created while in the act of burglarizing a home. And some people react to stress by taking a shit. Not flushing the toilet, that’s the insult part.

What a dreadful experience for a young boy who just wanted the company of his dad, who just wanted to whack at baseballs in the backyard with the old man, who just wanted to be taught to use a circular saw, who just wanted to learn the rudiments of five-card stud or blackjack, who just wanted to understand the precise location of the clitoris or how to pronounce clitoris, or who wanted to learn how to order meat from a waiter, or who wanted to say the word meat with great gusto, or who wanted to learn the proper way to mix and shake a martini, or who wanted to learn to say good little piece of tail, or who wanted to contemplate the necessity of moving on, or who wanted to neglect to shave, or who wanted to learn the specifics of firearms, wanted to be able to eject a used shell, to drive with one hand and dangle the other out the window, to belch without shame, who wanted to drink in the morning, who wanted not to bother flushing the toilet, who wanted to learn to walk naked from the bathroom without worrying about who saw him, and who wanted to cut down his colleagues, his personal friends, in midsentence when he had to. Who would not want his dad when his dad was gone?

One of the things I loved about Chris was his sense of humor, which seemed perfectly matched with mine, even at its most offbeat. April Fools’ Day was always a major highlight. A month before our daughter was due, I woke him up in the middle of the night. “Don’t panic,” I told him, “but I think I’m going into labor.” “Do we have a bag?” he asked, jumping up immediately. “No, no, don’t worry.” I slipped out of bed and went to take a shower. Chris immediately got dressed and, calmly but very quickly, gathered my clothes and packed a suitcase. “I’m ready!” he announced, barging into the bathroom. “Babe, do you know what day it is?” I asked sweetly. It was two A.M., April 1. “Are you kidding me?” he said, disbelieving. I laughed and plunged back into the shower. He quickly got revenge by flushing the toilet, sending a burst of cold water across my body. In retrospect, maybe I’d been a little cruel, but we did love teasing each other. At our wedding, we’d smooshed cake into each other’s faces. That began a tradition that continued at each birthday--whether it was ours or not. The routine never seemed to get old. We’d giggle and laugh, chasing each other as if we were crazy people. Our friends and neighbors got used to it--and learned to stay out of the line of fire.

We’ll go out tomorrow morning, then. First thing,” she ventures, more to Silas than me. “Though how the hell are we supposed to hunt? The Fenris certainly can’t see my face, and he’ll recognize Rosie. We’ve got no bait, unless you think you’ll look pretty in a dress, Silas.” “Okay, one, I would look great in a dress,” Silas begins. He turns to lean against the bathroom door, seemingly forgetting that I’m still in a towel. When he sees me, he averts his eyes and flushes a little. “And two,” he continues in a forced voice, “you’ve been luring Fenris on your own for pages, Scarlett. The Apple Time Festival is tomorrow. Perfect place for a Fenris to hang out, even if you don’t take into account all the red people will be wearing. We’ll go there.” Scarlett nods curtly. No one moves for a few minutes as water continues to trickle off my back and onto the shower floor. Finally, Scarlett gives me another cold look, turns on her heel, and storms down the hall. “Sorry I got you in trouble,” Silas whispers guiltily, his voice the only sound other than the steady pattering of water hitting the tile floor. “I was worried about you when you took off, and then I realized it was probably your first solo . . .” I shake my head. “I had to tell her eventually.” “For what it’s worth,” he says, eyes still averted respectfully, “I thought you did great.” “Thanks, Silas.” He finally meets my eyes, keeping his gaze firmly on my face. I tug the towel a little tighter. “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry for barging in. I didn’t . . . um, see anything. I promise.

We always thought it was cool that my mom only had boys, you know? Doug said, for once dropping his gangsta accent. “Who knew that we actually needed a sister?” Megan looked down at her hands. “Oh, man! Are you gonna go all blubbery on my ass?” Doug asked. Megan laughed. “No.” “So are you comin’ back with me or what?” Megan lifted her head and sighed. “I have a few conditions.” “Shoulda known,” Doug said, rolling his eyes. “First of all, I did not sign up for a truck stop bathroom,” Megan said. “You guys need to start cleaning up after yourselves in there. No more blood, no more hair, no more random stains that I don’t even want identified.” “All right, all right,” Doug said. “That it?” “Hardly,” Megan said. “I want a hands-off rule on all my stuff. Including my bike.” “Okay…” “And I want everyone to stop calling me Megan C Cups behind my back.” Doug’s jaw went slack as he flushed. “How did you know about that?” Megan raised her eyebrows. “All right, fine. Is that all?” Doug said. “You think you can do these things for me?” Megan asked. “Well, I may have to put the beatdown on a few people, but yeah. No problem,” Doug said casually. “Don’t beat down anybody,” Megan said. “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Doug said, cracking his knuckles comically. “Okay,” Megan said, standing. For the first time all day, she felt calm--certain. “I’ll come back.” “Thank God!” Doug said. “Let’s get the hell outta this place.” “Oh, wait! One more thing,” Megan said, stopping Doug in his tracks. His shoulders slumped and he turned around. “What? You want my kidney?” “I want in on the next ultimate Frisbee game,” Megan said. Doug grinned. “You’re playin’ skins.” Megan grinned back. “We’ll see about that.

I once overheard a Kohlberg-style moral judgment interview being conducted in the bathroom of a McDonald’s restaurant in northern Indiana. The person interviewed—the subject—was a Caucasian male roughly thirty years old. The interviewer was a Caucasian male approximately four years old. The interview began at adjacent urinals: INTERVIEWER: Dad, what would happen if I pooped in here [the urinal]? SUBJECT: It would be yucky. Go ahead and flush. Come on, let’s go wash our hands. [The pair then moved over to the sinks] INTERVIEWER: Dad, what would happen if I pooped in the sink? SUBJECT: The people who work here would get mad at you. INTERVIEWER: What would happen if I pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: I’d get mad at you. INTERVIEWER: What would happen if you pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: Mom would get mad at me. INTERVIEWER: Well, what would happen if we all pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: [pause] I guess we’d all get in trouble. INTERVIEWER: [laughing] Yeah, we’d all get in trouble! SUBJECT: Come on, let’s dry our hands. We have to go. Note the skill and persistence of the interviewer, who probes for a deeper answer by changing the transgression to remove the punisher. Yet even when everyone cooperates in the rule violation so that nobody can play the role of punisher, the subject still clings to a notion of cosmic justice in which, somehow, the whole family would “get in trouble.” Of course, the father is not really trying to demonstrate his best moral reasoning. Moral reasoning is usually done to influence other people (see chapter 4), and what the father is trying to do is get his curious son to feel the right emotions—disgust and fear—to motivate appropriate bathroom behavior.

Then came Dani’s turn to read a question. “‘Who’s in charge in the bedroom?’” Much to the group’s amusement, none of them got a match, and Sean didn’t think they would either as he held up his notepad. “‘I am, since I carry the big stick.’” Emma read hers with a remarkably straight face. “‘Sean, because he has a magic penis.’” “Wow. Um…so Sean and Emma have a point,” Dani said as the men nearly pissed themselves laughing. No way in hell was he leaving that unpunished, and he winked at Emma when Kevin read the next question. “‘Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve had sex?’” The fact that Joe and Keri had done the dirty deed on the back of his ATV led to a few questions about the logistics of that, but then it was Emma’s turn. “‘In bed, because Sean has no imagination.’” Roger threw an embarrassed wince his way, but his cousins weren’t shy about laughing their asses off. Sean just shrugged and held up his notepad. “In the car in the mall parking lot. Emma’s lying because she doesn’t want anybody to know being watched turns her on.” Her jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly and gave him a sweet smile that didn’t jibe with the “you are so going to get it” look in her eyes. Beth asked the next question. “‘Women, where does your man secretly dream of having sex?’” Keri knew Joe wanted to have sex in the reportedly very haunted Stanley Hotel, from King’s The Shining. Dani claimed Roger wanted to do the deed on a Caribbean beach, but he said that was her fantasy and that his was to have sex in an igloo. No amount of heckling would get him to say why. And when it came to Kevin, even Sean knew he dreamed of getting laid on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. Then, God help him, it was Emma’s turn to show her answer. “‘In a Burger King bathroom.’” The room felt silent until Dani said, “Ew. Really?” “No, not really,” Sean growled. “Really,” Emma said over him. “He knows that’s the only way he can slip me a whopper.” As the room erupted in laughter, Sean knew humor was the only way they’d get through the evening with their secret intact, but he didn’t find that one very funny, himself. It was the final answer that really did him in, though. The question: “If your sex had a motto, what would it be?” Joe and Keri’s was, not surprisingly, Don’t wake the baby Kevin and Beth wrote, Better than chocolate cake, whatever that was supposed to mean. Dani wrote, Gets better with time, like fine wine, and Roger wrote, Like cheese, the older you get, the better it is, which led to a powwow about whether or not to give them a point. They probably would have gotten it if they weren’t tied with Keri and Joe, who took competitive to a cutthroat level. When they all looked at Sean, he groaned and turned his paper around. They’d lost any chance of winning way back, but he was already dreading what the smart-ass he wasn’t really engaged to had written down. “‘She’s the boss.’” The look Emma gave him as she slowly turned the notepad around gave him advance warning she was about to lay down the royal flush in this little game they’d been playing. “Size really doesn’t matter,” she said in what sounded to him like a really loud voice. Before he could say anything—and he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth, but he had to say something--Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “I hate to break up the party,” she said, “but it’s getting late, so we’re calling it a night.” Maybe Cat was, but Sean was just getting started.

She wrote the phone number down on another slip of paper, rushed into the bathroom, crumpled up the letter, and flushed it down the toilet. For one paralyzing moment she envisioned federal law enforcement agents hiding somewhere in the White House intercepting her toilet water and reconstructing the letter. But that was impossible. That was the stuff of Orwell’s 1984. Yet in some ways, by living at the White House, she had already seen Orwell’s masterpiece of “fascism perfected” in a way most Americans could never imagine. She

But in doing so—moving forward, in Greta’s mind—he’s still dealing with the past. It’s always strung out behind us, innit, attached to our arses like a roll of toilet paper we trail out of the bathroom, pointing the way to the giant shite we just took. It doesn’t matter if we flushed it down: Everyone still knows what we did there.

life. I’ve been sucked off in so many bathrooms, I bone up when I flush the toilet.

Do you want to know a secret?” she breathed, her voice lowering seductively. “What?” I asked, wanting to hear anything and everything she might ever want to tell me. She leaned a little closer and her long hair tickled my skin. “I think,” she breathed slowly. “That I’m going to puke.” She leapt off of me so quickly that the bed bounced beneath me as she darted to the en-suite. My dick was straining so hard against my fly that I thought it might actually burst and I had to rearrange myself before I could follow her. By the time I got there she’d already emptied her stomach contents into the toilet and she flushed it before stumbling towards the basin where she washed her mouth out. She proceeded to steal my toothbrush like a goddamn animal and I leaned against the doorframe as I watched her, trying not to look at her ass too much as she bent forward over the basin but I was clearly failing at that. I should have been pissed at her for intruding on my space like this but somehow I didn’t mind at all. When she’d finished, she sauntered back towards me, pushing a hand into her hair as she fought to walk in a straight line. She failed. I caught her as she almost face planted into the tiles and hooked her into my arms before returning her to the bed again. She tugged me down too and I was past the point of protesting. The moment her head hit the pillow her eyes fell shut but she turned towards me, draping an arm across my waist. I flicked the lights off and the room was only illuminated by the fire which was burning low in the grate. “You’re unbelievable, you know that,” she mumbled. “In what way?” I asked, wondering if she just might be about to admit that she felt this heat between us too. She shifted nearer to me and I pulled her close as she laid her head on my chest. My heart was hammering wildly and I couldn’t quite believe the strange turn of events that had led us here. For the longest moment she didn’t speak and I began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep but then she carried on. “You have the biggest goddamn jacuzzi I’ve ever seen in your bathroom,” she said and I couldn’t help but laugh at the way that conversation had gone. “Do you like it?” I asked. “No. It’s just unbelievable. Like you. You’re just... such... a dick.” Her breathing grew heavier and I was sure she’d passed out again. A smile pulled at my lips in response to her comment. It might have been nice for my ego if she’d started declaring how attractive she found me, but in all honesty she just wouldn’t have been herself without her smart mouth. And I was beginning to realise that I might like that, and a few other things about her, just a bit too much. (Darius POV)

In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away.

A Sad Child You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget. Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child. My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside your head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.

Leaning down, I brush my lips against her earlobe and whisper, “Well, kiska, what I want right now is to take you into the bathroom and fuck you on the counter until you come screaming in my ear.” She rips away from me and whirls around as soon as the words have left my mouth. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed. She’s trying to look offended. But I can see it on her face: she wants the same fucking thing.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s transforming right before me, claiming a pleasure that’s always been unknown to her, and it’s beautiful to watch. The flush of her skin darkens even more, her pupils are completely blown, and her soft whimpers fill the damn bathroom. It’s not over the top, though. She’s not acting for me, not trying to put on a show that she thinks I want to see. It’s just her—completely on display and vulnerable and sexy as hell.

She’s flushed from what I did to her in the bathroom, and I fucking love it.

Dr. Charles Gerba, a microbiologist working at the University of Arizona, explains that the force of flushing the toilet sends water particles (polluted with waste debris) up into the air.   These particles can float around for a few hours before finally settling on all surfaces of the bathroom and even your toothbrush.

I wash my hands twice in the bathroom—once before I touch my penis, and once again after I rinse off my hands in the toilet before I flush.

Gray walked swiftly down the hall and slipped through a partially open door. An elderly woman emerged from her bathroom. The flush of the toilet still sloshed behind her. Gray was about to mutter an apology, then remembered she was invisible. She’d

What a stink! As I was complaining about how bad it smelled in the bathroom, I said, “Why don’t these people flush as they go?” And when I sat down, the Lord began to talk to me. He said, just as it stinks in here, sin stinks in my nostrils. If people would flush as they go, there would hardly be any stink or build-up. In other words, if we would forgive as we go there would be no holding on to anger or to unforgiveness. We would be able to continue on in a way that is pleasing to the Lord in our relationships with others. One Scripture says, “Don’t let the sun go down on your wrath” (Ephesians 4:26). If we forgive others as we go, there would be no build-up.

A toilet flushes, and everyone turns to see Jax emerge from the downstairs bathroom holding a Victoria’s Secret catalogue and chewing on a Red Vine. “Yo, what up,” he says, oblivious. As he looks from one face to the next he stops chewing. He swallows hard. “Everything okay?” “No,” I say.

antics as much as her daughter did, and slid a plate in front of him. She'd poured him a cup of coffee when she'd heard his bathroom toilet flush, so he reached for the butter and syrup that were

him. She'd poured him a cup of coffee when she'd heard his bathroom toilet flush, so he reached for the butter and syrup that were on the table and began slathering butter into every single hole in Kenzie's waffle, before smothering it in his own favorite original maple syrup.

Everything in the bathroom was white. I sat on the toilet and looked at my thighs nostalgically. Soon they would be perpetually entwined in his thighs, never alone, not even when they wanted to be. But it couldn’t be helped. We had a good run, me and me. I imagined shooting an old dog, an old faithful dog, because that’s what I was to myself. Go on, boy, get. I watched myself dutifully trot ahead. Then I lowered my rifle and what actually happened was I began to have a bowel movement. It was unplanned, but once begun it was best to finish. I flushed and washed my hands and only by luck did I happen to glance back at the toilet. It was still there. One had to suppose it was the dog, shot, but refusing to die. This could get out of hand, I could flush and flush and Phillip would wonder what was going on and I’d have to say The dog won’t die gracefully. Is the dog yourself, as you’ve known yourself until now? Yes. No need to kill it, my sweet girl, he’d say, reaching into the toilet bowl with a slotted spoon. We need a dog. But it’s old and has strange, unchangeable habits. So do I, my dear. So do we all. I flushed again and it went down. I could tell him about it later.

ZANE stood on the bathroom threshold, looking out into the shadowed hotel room at the man he’d left sprawled across the bed in a mess of sheets and sweat. The light shining from behind Zane lit Ty’s face, highlighting long lashes that lay against flushed cheeks and lips Zane could tell were swollen. He

Syn stared into Furi’s sparkling eyes. He brought one hand up and tenderly brushed Furi’s cheek. “Congratulations.” “Thank you.” Furi kissed his lips gently. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy.” “I know you are.” Syn winked. Furi flushed with embarrassment. “Shut up. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” “I’ll finish it later,” Syn promised. His look was pure lust as he pushed his rising cock against Furi’s jean-clad thigh. “Fuckin’ right you will,” Furi moaned against Syn’s cheek, rocking back against him. “I’d fuckin’ take you right now if your bosses weren’t in the front room.” Syn groaned. Furi gripped Syn’s cock in a firm grip and stroked a couple times, wrapping his other arm around Syn’s back to hold him close. He nipped at Syn’s stubbled chin, peppering sweet kisses along his jaw to his ear. Furi flicked his tongue out and pulled the fleshy lobe between his soft lips. Furi’s lips were pressed against his ear as he spoke in a low, sexy drawl, “I’d bend you over this sink and fuck you until you yelled my name and begged me not to stop.” “Fuck,” Syn moaned. Heat tore up through him at Furi’s nasty words. “Fuck you hard, just how you like it, baby.” Furi increased the speed of his stroke. “Oh fuck, fuck. No. Stop honey,” Syn protested weakly, his balls already throbbing with the need for release. “Why?” Furi hissed. “Because I fucking refuse to let Day hear me come.” Syn put some room between their bodies and kept backing up until he hit the wall. He tried to control his breathing, but staring at Furi’s gorgeous, flushed face didn’t help. “You guys are crazy.” Furi shook his head. “Day’s pranks have no boundaries. I wouldn’t be surprised if my moans are broadcasted over the loudspeaker in the office today.” Syn opened the bathroom door and gestured for Furi to look out into the hallway. “See.” Furi busted out laughing at Day standing there in the hallway with his cell phone in his hand, studying the non-existent art on Syn’s bare wall. He whistled like he was just lounging around not looking for trouble. Syn just flipped him off and pulled Furi into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them. “Oh my fucking god. That shit is too funny.” Furi laughed while he put a few things into his backpack. “Yeah, because you don’t’ have to deal with his silliness.” Syn hurried to get dressed.

Imani snatched the blunt from his hand and watched the satisfied smirk he placed on his face, and then she hurried to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. “That’s for being a dick to me.” Then, she smacked him across the face. “And that’s because I felt like it. Stop being an asshole.

The real hell of Hell is that it is forever." Sula said that. She said doing anything forever and ever was hell. Nel didn't understand it then, but now in the bathroom, trying to feel, she thought, "If I could be sure that I could stay here in this small white room with the dirty tile and water gurgling in the pipes and my head on the cool rim of this bathtub and never have to go out the door, I would be happy. If I could be certain that I never had to get up and flush the toilet, go in the kitchen, watch my children grow up and die, see my food chewed on my plate... Sula was wrong. Hell ain't things lasting forever. Hell is change.

My heart is racing, my skin is flushed. The smell of earth and dirt fills my nostrils, stunning me. Feeling feverish, I swipe my hand across my brow and shake my head. Something isn’t right. I look at my hands and find them covered in blood. My chin radiates with pain. Touching the scrape, I flinch and glance around to see if anyone noticed but no one is paying attention to me. I quickly replace the mask over my face, but desperate for fresh air, I leave the terminal and head for my apartment. Thankfully I run into no one. Once I’m alone and behind closed doors, perfectly safe within the four walls of my unit, I feel the dampness between my legs. Dampness… from… My hand smells like… I tear off my clothes and run into the bathroom to clean up and bandage my chin. When my nerves settle and I’m composed once more, I head back to the medical sector and my office. Waiting for me is an encrypted message from Dr. Ursula. I close out my research paper and scan the note. Running my hands over my face, I sit back in my chair. My guess was correct; she’ll be in charge of the alien. Now I’m expected at her office thirty minutes before my next shift for a debriefing. I’ll be needed to run the technology they plan to use on him. Which means… I’ll be seeing the alien again, and soon. Very soon.

• The German Chocolate Cake has nothing to do with Germany, but was invented by English-born baker Samuel German in 1852.

EFFECTS The effects can be categorized into three parts: Inner connection For the rest of our life, an inward link to Reiki is created. With regular use, it will deepen. But if you haven't used Reiki for a while, don't worry. Even if you haven't been practicing it for many years and then suddenly feel it might be handy, just think about it, and it's going to be there. It may lay unconscious, so it can always be invoked. Healing hands and intuition Shortly after the tuning, we seem to have a feeling in our hands. It is experienced as intense warmth for many, tingling, or pulsating for others. Many people feel nothing about themselves and only understand they have soothing hands through the support they get when they position them on another human. Occasionally, after a tuning, Reiki can' turn on' itself. You may be seated on the underground and suddenly feel an intense heat settling on your lap with your paws. There's nothing to think about just enjoy what's happening. At that point, you definitely need Reiki. Many students are surprised by the increase in their intuitive skills. They become more aware of the feelings of other people and may even feel the events of the future. They tap into the universe's interconnectedness. A 21-day clearing process An attunement ends an inner cleansing process that is often most evident in the first three weeks (and thus called the 21-day clearing process). It can last as long as a few months in some cases, in many others, just a week. It's a good inner declutter, but the severity can vary. Some students have to use the bathroom more often (flushing out toxins); others have to relive their lives completely, encounter emotions, personality habits, visions, and experiences that are often as toxic as chemicals. But they can handle them now.

If men knew how often women are filled with white-hot rage when we cry, they would be staggered, I remember someone saying the other day, through the groaning static of my house's ancient intercom system. We self-objectify and lose the ability to even recognize the physiological changes that indicate anger. Mainly, though, we get sick. And oh, how true that is: We sicken, we are consumed, laughing wild amidst severest woe. We flourish with illnesses that have no cure and a thousand different names. Hysteria, the lung, wandering womb syndrome. Our own immune systems turn against us, fight us as if we ourselves were diseases, infestations. We wither, we swell, miscarry, grow phantom pregnancies, ingest our babies and turn them to stone. Our wounds fester, turn inside-out. Our equipment rusts and degenerates from over-use or lack of use or potential for use alike, decays within us, sliming blackly over the rest of our pulsing, stuttering interiors. Things get lost inside us: penises, forceps, scalpels. No maps to the interior. And every once in a while, we simply flush our systems without adequate warning, drooling blood in clots from inconvenient areas, dropping squalling flesh-lumps everywhere—in trash-cans, in bathrooms, shoved under beds and swaddled in bloodied plastic, buried shallowly, immured behind walls that bulge with black mould-stains, pumping out flies.

There was no personal bathroom. Instead, there was a communal restroom at the far end of the hall with three ancient toilets that made disturbing noises when you flushed them and four showers that appeared to be a breeding ground for rare foot fungi.

Yet he was a European titan, receiving ambassadors from the two Christian emperors, a humanistic patron of the arts with the greatest library outside Constantinople. Cordoba was now the biggest city in Europe along with Constantinople: its emperors sent gifts, marble fountains and Greek classics which the caliph had translated into Arabic. He built a new palace complex, Medina al-Zahra, probably named after a slave girl and modelled on the Umayya palace in Damascus, six miles outside Cordoba, with a colossal throne room built around a huge mercury pool, a menagerie of lions (a gift from his African allies) and one of Europe’s first flushing bathrooms at a time when London and Paris were tiny towns with open sewers. His court was cosmopolitan: his guards and concubines were Slavs, his viziers often Jewish or Christian. His Jewish doctor Hasdai ibn Shaprut served as ambassador and treasurer, corresponding with popes and with German and eastern emperors, as well as with the Jewish khagans of Khazaria.

Stop this, Kevin! Cease what you are doing and end this madness! Yeah, that. Unfortunately, the logical side of his brain no longer functioned as it should have. Thoughts of decency, propriety, and waiting until he felt comfortable with Lilian vanished, and all that remained was his desire to experience all that Lilian had to offer. To please and be pleased in return. He wanted to— “Damn, that’s hot.” —Like a mountain of ice cold water being dumped on them, the young couple became painfully aware of the third presence in the room. Lilian and Kevin slowly craned their heads toward the new voice. Eric stood in the doorway, hands on the handle. If his flushed cheeks and bleeding nose didn’t tell Kevin what the boy was looking at, then the dark eyes planted firmly on Lilian did. “Kya!” “ERIC!” In that moment, two things happened; Lilian ducked underneath the water’s surface, covering her body as best she could, while Kevin roared and jumped out of the bathtub. In a display of aerial acrobatics that should have been impossible without shonen manga mechanics involved, Kevin leapt into the air, his body twisting like a corkscrew until he was parallel with the ground, his feet pointing directly at Eric. “Stop-ogling-my-mate-you-pervert Kick!” The loud bang! of Kevin’s feet impacting against Eric’s chest rang out abnormally loudly due to the bathroom’s acoustics. Seconds after being hit, Eric flew backwards with the speed of a cannonball. He blew right out the door and into the hall, crashing into the wall before crumpling onto his backside with a heavy thud. “Ow.” He got back up, surprisingly. “Oi! What the hell was that for, you―” was about as far as he got. “Finishing move! Combustion of Manly Souls Uppercut!” Eric’s head jerked upwards, his teeth clacking together and his face scrunching up in stunned agony. His feet left the ground by at least a foot. Meanwhile, his spine curved painfully, traveling in the direction that the momentum of Kevin’s fist took him. Seconds later, Eric Corrompere lay on the ground, dead to the world around him. Standing above the prone pervert’s form, Kevin took several heavy breaths, his right fist still raised above his head. “Whoo! Now that’s what I like to see! Take it off!” With movements that were almost mechanical, Kevin turned to see four sexy vixens standing several yards down the hall, each one wearing a vastly different expression. Kotohime looked

I have neither the time nor patience to fix 30+ years of all my gross shit. My snoring, my shitting all the time, my only flushing the toilet after I’ve peed in it a bunch of times, my irregular mopping, my gross litterbox, my dinner in bed, my counter covered with pill bottles, my cat food everywhere, my cat hair everywhere, my piles of filthy laundry, my dozens of dirty-ass Birkenstocks scattered all over. Sometimes Helen gets maxi-pads out of the bathroom trash and chews them. Sometimes I let food go bad and take way too long to throw it out. Sometimes I drink out of the same water glass for, like, three days without washing it. BARF.

It’s because of this functionality that Google Now has passed what Page refers to as the “toothbrush test.”32 If it is something you’d use once or twice a day and it makes your life better—like a toothbrush—it wins approval. Google Now is revolutionary in many ways, but it alone won’t change how we live on this planet. How does it factor in to the bigger picture? Think about all of the invisible infrastructure you take for granted today. You wake up in the morning and flip a switch to turn on your lights. A knob in your bathroom brings you clean, hot water within seconds. After you finish using the toilet, a lever creates enough force and pressure to flush your excretions through a massive underground sewer system. All of this infrastructure passes the toothbrush test, and you don’t even notice.

They discussed several other options, including sending it to the president to help him run the government. But they didn’t think he would want money meant for a bribe, either. In the end, they snuck upstairs to the bathroom, where they ripped up the five-dollar bill and flushed the pieces down the toilet, laughing so hard they almost woke up Lydia.

The average American spends 62 minutes a day eating, while the average Frenchman spends 131.5 minutes a day. The amount and quality of the food ingested isn’t correlated to the time spent at the table though.

1930s Functionalism/Modernism Exterior •Facade: Cube shapes and light-color plaster facades, or thin, standing wood panels. •Roof: Flat roof, sometimes clad in copper or sheet metal. •Windows: Long horizontal window bands often with narrow—or no—architraves; large panes of glass without mullions or transoms. Emphasis on the horizontal rather than on the vertical. Windows run around corners to allow more light and to demonstrate the new possibilities of construction and materials. •Outside door: Wooden door with circular glass window. •Typical period details: Houses positioned on plots to allow maximum access to daylight. Curving balconies, often running around the corner; corrugated-iron balcony frontage. Balcony flooring and fixings left visible. The lines of the building are emphasized. Interior •Floors: Parquet flooring in various patterns, tongue-and-groove floorboards, or linoleum. •Interior doors: Sliding doors and flush doors of lamella construction (vaulted, with a crisscross pattern). Masonite had a breakthrough. •Door handles: Black Bakelite, wood, or chrome. •Fireplaces: Slightly curved, brick/stone built. Light-color cement. •Wallpaper/walls: Smooth internal walls and light wallpapers, or mural wallpaper that from a distance resembled a rough, plastered wall. Internal wall and woodwork were light in color but rarely completely white—often muted pastel shades. •Furniture: Functionalism, Bauhaus, and International style influences. Tubular metal furniture, linear forms. Bakelite, chrome, stainless steel, colored glass. •Bathroom: Bathrooms were simple and had most of today’s features. External pipework. Usually smooth white tiles on the walls or painted plywood. Black-and-white chessboard floor. Lavatories with low cisterns were introduced. •Kitchen: Flush cupboard doors with a slightly rounded profile. The doors were partial insets so that only about a third of the thickness was visible on the outside—this gave them a light look and feel. Metal-sprung door latches, simple knobs, metal cup handles on drawers. Wall cabinets went to ceiling height but had a bottom section with smaller or sliding doors. Storage racks with glass containers for dry goods such as salt and flour became popular. Air vents were provided to deal with cooking smells.

things. The Washington Post published a column The Clinton Team Is Following Reporters to the Bathroom: Here’s Why That Matters. The Free Beacon called for one of The Guys, ironically the most decent and professional of the cohort, to “stick his big obnoxious head in the toilet and ‘Flush for Good.’” That didn’t help matters. Until then, I hadn’t fully grasped the impact of a Times story in the viral news era. Bathroomgate was discussed on the Today show, CNN, MSNBC, NPR, and ad nauseam on Twitter. I declined every interview request. I just wanted it to go away.

HOUSEHOLD MAINTENANCE I’ve written the following list to help you with the maintenance tasks that will have the most impact on the longevity of your belongings. Every day Act fast to clean up spills on furniture or clothing. Update software as needed to avoid getting hacked. Every week Vacuum, dust, and clean the house and furniture. Condition regularly worn shoes. Clean clothes as necessary. Clean out the dishwasher filter. Every month Descale the coffee maker (see this page). Condition regularly used leather bags and shoes worn less often. Fix any garments in the mending pile. Every three months Oil wood cutting boards and spoons. Put frozen vinegar cubes in the garbage disposal. Check the smoke alarms. Check the water softener (if you have one). Every six months Deep clean the house. Turn and vacuum the mattress. Launder the pillows and duvet. Polish wood furniture. Deep clean the fridge. Clean the refrigerator coils. Put petroleum jelly on the fridge seals. Run the cleaning cycle of the dishwasher and washing machine. Inspect the gutters. Every year Take stock of the items in your life (see Chapter 8). Have any leather jackets professionally cleaned. Get the knives sharpened. Clean the filter in the kitchen hood fan. Check the grouting around the tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. Flush the hot-water system and have the boiler serviced. Inspect the roof and exterior of your home (best done in spring/summer). Fix any loose fixings or screws. Clean and consider repainting/resealing the exterior woodwork. Every two years Have a professional deep clean of your upholstery and carpets.

each flush of the toilet can send poo particles spraying up to six feet—right on to your new toothbrush?

The famed British plumber and owner of the “Venerable Thomas Crapper Co.” is credited with popularizing the toilet and improving flushing in turn-of-the-century London. His eye for elegant toilet design earned him work for the Royal Family and a place in the annals of plumbing history.

There was no bathroom—there wouldn’t be a bathroom until I was almost fourteen, the same year America put a man on the moon. But we had a proper outside WC with a tall rusting iron cistern high up on the wall and a chain for the flush. There was no mains drainage and it often fell to my father to unblock the septic because the access cover for the system that served the whole street was just outside our kitchen window. Oh, those Victorian builders were a clever lot!

From then on the disorder became her secret friend. She became not only an anorexic-bulimic, but the absolute best anorexic-bulimic she could be. She was strategic, clean, informed. She knew, for example, that the worst kind of vomit is the kind that isn’t properly chewed up. Lobes of steak that rise up your throat like Lincoln Logs. Ice cream is also a problem. It’s too soft and comes back up like liquid; it doesn’t feel like expelling anything at all and you can’t be sure it didn’t stick to the walls of your stomach. Then of course there is the question of timing. Everything in life is timing and with vomiting it’s no different. Too soon after you eat, and nothing comes up. You wreck your throat trying to regurgitate. Too late, and only the tail end of the meal comes; your finger is slicked in fawn fluid for nothing. You do it too soon or too early and you make too much noise because your body isn’t prepared. With vomiting, you have to work with your body. There is no working against it. You have to respect the process. The hope each morning was that she would barely eat—a pan-cooked chicken breast, an orange, lemon water. But if she failed—peanut M&M’s, a bite of someone’s birthday cake—then she would accept the failure at the same time that she would not accept the failure. She would go to the bathroom. Flush twice. Clean up. And reenter the conversation. It worked, for the most part. Field hockey suffered. In the ninth grade she had been a pretty serious athlete, but by the spring of tenth grade she was so skinny she could barely make varsity. School, in general, suffered. She stopped doing homework and stopped paying attention in class. Her family didn’t question her new body or her new habit. The closest her mother came to Why are you trying to kill yourself? was Why do you flush the toilet so many times?

My favorite was about a boy and girl arguing in a car about the morality of peeing in a McDonald’s without buying anything. Jill: But if I use the bathroom without buying something, it’s stealing! Robert: One flush is not equivalent to armed robbery. Jill: Fine! I’ll be right back. Jill grabs her purse and reaches for the door. Robert: Why are you taking your purse? Jill: I need it . . . for feminine things. Robert: You’re going to buy something, aren’t you? Jill: No, I’m not . . . Jill tries to get out. Robert grabs her purse. Robert: Give me the purse. Jill: Stop it, Robert! Robert: You’re not going to buy something. Jill: Just one apple pie; I didn’t have dessert! Robert: Be a man! Or grow another valve! Jill: I don’t know what that means! (For the record, I still will not pee somewhere without at least buying a dip cone.) I wasn’t the best writer in class, but I wasn’t the worst, and I enjoyed myself.