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I Never Use the Bathrooms at School Anymore

The following is the best, most accurate description I can give, of something that happened to me last May. This isn’t something I can explain or give a good reason for, it’s just something that happened. I graduated from high school a couple months ago in June. I live in Oregon, and without going into too much detail, I’ll just say that my school’s main building has been around since Eisenhower was president. They’re actually tearing it down this summer, and a lot of people are sad to see it go. A lot of people are happy to be rid of the asbestos. My class didn’t care much either way, as we were the last ones to graduate in the old building so whatever was coming wasn’t going to affect most of us in any way. We all just went about our business, sending out applications and trying to meet the deadlines on time for graduation.

One of these graduation requirements, was to take and pass a gen-ed economics class. That particular classroom is located on the main floor, which is the only part of the school with only one bathroom (per gender, say what you will on that). I had economics first thing, and let me tell you that shit was boooorrrrring. It’s a subject that has so much potential to be interesting, but our teacher was only a month from retirement and we were only a month from our own freedom, so essentially no one really cared beyond scraping a passing grade.

Anyways, during one exceptionally uninteresting lecture, I realized I really had to pee. Usually I avoided school bathrooms as much as possible, there was always some random group of girls in there who liked to glare at you when you walked in, as if using the bathroom for its intended purpose was a crime against humanity or some shit, but like I said I really had to pee. It’s a bit of a walk to the main floor bathroom from the economics room, but I didn’t mind the time away from class.I was happy to discover that the bathroom that morning was completely empty. All four stalls had doors wide open, so I glanced through them to pick the cleanest one which happened to be the second stall in. I did my business. Then I decided to take advantage of my solo status and blow my nose.

This is something I typically avoid doing in public at all costs, because for me it almost always triggers a nosebleed. I’ve had them my whole life, and occasionally I have been made fun of for it. Told I’m gross, accused of excessive picking, just generally shamed for it. It’s stupid, but if I’m going to bleed I prefer to do it on my own terms. So I was standing in the stall at this point, trying to staunch the flow, when I heard the first stall’s door slam shut, which also happens to be the direction I had been facing. Now, this was fucking weird. Our building was old like I said, and our school is one of the poorest in the district so we still had those heavy ass wooden doors in and out of the bathroom, and they slammed every damn time you walked through no matter how discreet you were trying to be. And that heavy wooden door, the only entrance and exit, had not been opened since I myself had walked in. Another bonus to an old ass poor building, we didn’t have air conditioning or heaters, so it couldn’t have been airflow that pushed the stall door closed. And I had checked the other stalls for cleanliness before locking myself in this one, so I was- or at least, I had been- the only one in the room.

My primary reaction to fear has always been to freeze up, and this situation was no exception. I heard the lock slide shut, and for a moment I assumed that maybe I had been lost in my head and just hadn’t heard the main door. It’s not impossible, and I would have been content to leave it at that- except whoever or whatever was next to me didn’t sit down or go to the bathroom. Public bathrooms are echoey as shit. You can always hear every awkward little detail, and still standing there frozen I was listening with all my might hoping to prove to myself that I was really still alone. If they weren’t sitting down, they weren’t standing anywhere on the right side of their stall either because I couldn’t see their feet. I couldn’t go back to class yet, my stupid nose was still leaking blood at a constant rate. A minute or two passed in absolute silence, and I started to convince myself that I had imagined the whole ordeal. That combined with my soaked through wad of toilet paper prompted me to move again, and I bent down to grab another handful when I saw it. It’s a good thing I had already peed, because if I hadn’t I have doubts it would have happened right then and there.

There was a face staring up at me. She was peering up in such a way, it almost looked like she was laying flat on her back but she was definitely up off the ground, because she had shoulder length black hair falling evenly away from her face. Her skin was noticeably pale, even for an Oregonian (we don’t get much sun during the school year, so light skin is common even in May) and she had very wide, very pale blue eyes. She stared up at me, unblinking, and I stared back down at her, heart racing, absolutely scared shitless. And then, and I’ll never forget this, without moving anything but her mouth, she said in this slow, sad, yet crystal clear voice, “Oh... I’m... sorry.” And then she was just fucking gone. I didn’t see her move, she was just gone all of a sudden and the way she had said those words sent fucking chills up my spine, she sounded like a doll in pitch and inflection, but the pace was almost like a robot and it sounded so fucking weird, and I still have no fucking idea how she was able to hold herself like that, they’re not wide stalls and her head wasn’t at any angle or anything, she was perfectly flat but in air like she was levitating or some shit…

I stayed frozen there a few more seconds before fight or flight finally kicked in and I bolted out of the stall. I washed my hands to the side of the sink, so I could watch that first stall but I saw nothing. I even bent down myself, to see if I could see her feet or anything but there was  nothing. The stall stayed closed. I dried my hands, I checked my nose to make sure I wasn’t at risk for bleeding the halls, and then I got the fuck out of there.

When I got back to class, nothing had changed. The teacher was still droning on and more than half the students were on their phones, the rest either doodling idly or propping their heads up to stay awake. I spent the remainder of the period trying - and failing- to come up with an explanation. I thought maybe it was one of the edgy freshmen trying to be cool or something, but our school isn’t exactly huge, at only around a thousand kids total. Most of us have known each other the majority of our lives, or at least since middle school, so it doesn’t take long to commit the new faces to memory and by May I had a pretty good handle on the freshman class. Besides, I would have recognized those pale blue eyes if I had seen them in the hallway.

My next theory was that maybe it was a special ed student, since most of them stick to their own classes and some of them might not know certain things, like how it’s weird to creep up on someone else’s stall in the bathroom. But I knew most of the kids in there too, my mom used to be a teacher’s aid in that program and we were still family friends with one of the assistant teachers so it wasn’t unusual for me to stop and chat with her when they were walking the kids between classes. On top of that, none of the special ed kids went around with out someone with them, be it another student or another teacher’s aid. The whole situation made no fucking sense. I told a couple of my close friends about it during my next class, and they couldn’t come up with anything either.

Before graduation, I went in that bathroom only one other time, to try to recreate the position that thing was in with my friend. No matter how either of us contorted, we could not find a way to hold ourselves even close to how it had, without other body parts also showing or without falling over. It’s been a few months since we got out, and it still gives me chills. They have since torn the building down and are beginning construction on a new, much more modern one. I plan to go back when it’s finished, visit some old teachers, tour the new building. But I’m still going to avoid the bathrooms at all costs. Especially if they are on the first floor.

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Tidal Wave of Toxic Masculinity

tw: suicide, self harm

Someone is looking in my window. I can see them in the little mirror next to my laptop, the one I bought for my makeup. It’s a nice mirror. You can adjust the stand, and the reverse side has really good magnification for brow pluck days. Anyways. 

They’re still staring in. I think it’s a woman, or it’s a really pretty drag queen. I’ve always wanted to try drag. I buy all the right makeup and I watch all of the really good tutorials but I’ve never had the confidence to try it. If it doesn’t come out right I’ll be too embarrassed to ever try it again and besides I would have to take it off before my dad came home.. So instead I keep all of the pretty blue eyeshadows and lipsticks in a drawer. 

She’s pressing her face against the window now. I hope she wipes it off before she leaves, I hate grease stains on glass. I keep a little glasses cleaning cloth next to my mirror just incase I accidently slip up and touch the surface. I always thought if I had a drag character, she would be based off the ocean. I used to draw these beautiful over the top siren inspired queens, but I always left the face smudged and blurred. The blush never came out right. 

She’s pressing her face so hard into the glass it’s cracking. She has her hands up now too. Her nails are the most beautiful teal color but they’re scraping really loud on the glass and it’s hurting my head. I’ve never understood why male mermaids (mermen?) were always drawn with bulging muscles, while the girls were always skinny and pale. I think boy mermaids should be comfortable being pale and skinny too. And they should have more pearl and shell decorations, like the girls. 

The window is broken now. I hope she doesn’t get any blood on my clean beige carpet. I used to like to pretend it was sand on the ocean floor. It was my stage at the bottom of the sea. But I never sang or danced like I wanted to. I knew I could never hit the notes and my rhythm would be terrible. 

She has climbed through the window and now I can see her pretty blue dress. It looks a little bit like the one I stole from the mall in seventh grade. When I saw it I knew I had to have it, even though it was in the girls section. I told my dad I was going to the bathroom and on the way I knocked the dress off the hanger. When I bent to pick it up I just slipped it into my bag instead. I never tried it on even after I got home, I just hid it in the back of my closet. Sometimes I take it out and touch the sequins around the neckline and imagine what it would feel like swishing between my legs as I walked. 

She’s standing right behind me now. She has long black hair, just like all my old drawings did. I wish I could grow my hair long like that. I would curl it away from my face and let it drape over my shoulders. But my dad would never let me grow it passed my ears. 

She’s reaching out, touching my shoulders. I can feel her leaning close, smell her perfume. It smells like mom used to.

 She’s leaning in so close I can feel her lips brush the cartilage of my ear. I always wanted to pierce my ears. I don’t like needles though. Plus then I would have to buy earrings, and I don’t think I could face the cashiers.

 I can see her face in the mirror clearly now. She has the most beautiful pearls stuck underneath her empty eye sockets. She opens her mouth, and through her deep blue lips and from between her pointed teeth pours thick, black liquid. I can’t help but admire her fake eyelashes, even though I know she’s staining my carpet beyond repair.

 She smiles. I bet her eyes would have been blue too. Just like mine. The perfect shade to match her eyeshadow. I smile back. One of her manicured hands slides down my arm, and I can see little starfish studs and shells imbedded in the polish. I always wanted to get my nails done like that, but I would have to take the polish off before my dad got home. I don’t think I could stand smearing away such beautiful work with that stinky acetone.

 She guides my hand down to the drawer where I hide my makeup. I realize what she’s asking for, and I dig around for the razors deep in the back. I only need one. 

She smiles again as I pull my hand back out. She’s so beautiful. I wish my dad could see how beautiful she is. I bet she shines, down at the bottom of the ocean. I slide the razor down the length of my forearm, once, twice, three times. It doesn’t hurt, like I always worried it would.

She runs her fingers down the cuts and smears the blood already streaking down my arm. The light starts to fade from my vision until her face in the mirror is the only thing I see. I wish I would have used my makeup just once. I know exactly how I would have arranged the pearl studs under my eyes.

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I found a diary while I was out hiking in New Hampshire. I have to admit, I’m thoroughly creeped out by what was written inside.

The diary was from a while ago; 21 years, according to the dates. It was sealed really well in plastic wrap and stuffed in a watertight bag. It I hadn’t hit the thing with my shovel when digging a hole to take a dump, I never would’ve found it. I wish that would’ve been the case because I can’t stop thinking about the stuff I read. I’m only going to share the fucked up parts, but all I’m leaving out is the lady talking about how she and her husband were spending the month camping and having a good time. There, I just saved you 5 pages. Here’s where it got weird:

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7/2/1994, 7:00am

Last night, James and I got woken up by a ridiculously bright flash of lightning. There was no thunder, either. James said it must’ve been heat lightning. He’s probably right because it was disgustingly hot and muggy all day and once the sun went down it got even more humid. We eventually got back to sleep and this morning the air seems a little less like a wet sponge. We’re hoping to do 12 miles today.

7/2/1994, 8:00pm

I don’t even want to write this down because it’s so gross. James asked that I do it anyway so we’ll remember to report what we saw once we get to a ranger station. Like I could forget something like this. Anyway, here: all day, while we walked, we saw animals. Deer, birds, raccoons, squirrels, chipmunks, and a black bear. That’s pretty par for the course out here. But when we went off the path for a little bit because, well, James was staring at my ass for the last hour while we walked and I guess he got some ideas, we were stopped by the sight of something awful about a hundred feet off the path. Well, many somethings. Strewn across a wide area that I estimated to be a couple thousand feet were miscarried animals. They were all at different stages of development. It was horrible.

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cute dog blog manager forgets to switch account

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I’ll be dead soon, so my doctors asked that I tell my story as a cautionary tale. I don’t want other girls to be sick like I am.

When I was little, Mom used to hold me and say stuff like, “Oh Katie, you fit so perfectly on my lap! You’re so teeny-tiny!” I loved it. She’d keep me warm and hug me and I felt so great. I’d always go to Mom if I felt sad or scared and she’d just scoop me up, saying “what’s wrong, my teeny-tiny girl?” and I’d tell her what was making me upset and she’d always always always make it all better.

The most vivid memory I have was the day I turned 10. It wasn’t of my party, which I vaguely remember being great, it wasn’t the presents, some of which I still have, but it was when Mom had me in her lap that night and had tears in her eyes and said to Dad, “Katie’s getting to be a big girl, huh?” I don’t remember what my dad said, but there was no denying it: I wasn’t her teeny-tiny girl anymore.

At 10 years old, I was about 4’10”, maybe 100 pounds. I was growing fast. Both my parents are tall. I remember being scared. The scale kept going up, and by the time I was 11 I was 5’2”, 120 pounds and I started getting boobs. At that point, when I was sad, mom would hug me tight and say the right things, but it all felt different. She never cradled me. She never had me in her lap. I felt cold and lonely even though I was never really cold or lonely. I just wanted to be closer to her like I was when I was little. So I decided to get little again.

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It’s hard to clean blood out of the crotch of a fur suit.

Especially if the fur’s white. Sure, you might get the bulk of it off the individual fibers, but a stain will still be there. It’s not easy to find someone who wants to blow a six-foot tall ferret with a blood stain on the business end.

Hi, I’m Shane. I’m 42 and I’m a furry. And no, I’m not one of those adorable ones who goes to conventions and acts like my favorite cartoon character and makes cute noises and then goes home. I’m a degenerate. I like to be around other degenerates. Especially ones in fur suits. Take a moment to psychoanalyze me from your armchair. I’ll wait.

Ready?

Ok.

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Antique postcard, undated.

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I Agree

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10 Things I Hate About You (1999)

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But will I stop? No

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