Back in the Hotel Bathroom By Edgar Allan Pour

Even though we have full-sized bodies, hotel bathrooms notoriously provide us with tiny packages of shampoo and miniscule boxes of soap. At first, I’m usually quite excited to have my own tiny packages of hygienic cleaning supplies. In fact, when I begin showering, I eagerly tremble to try out my new soap and shampoo. The little soap box looks at me, asking me to use it. It stares at me, and stares at me. My heart pounds louder and louder. I cannot resist, I must tear open the package. “Look how small,” it is, I convince my reflection in the mirror, “this bar of soap is soooo cute.” With the tiny bar of soap in my hand, I feel like a monstrous giant. Puffing out my chest, I loudly roar, tearing open the package of shampoo, squirting it into my . . . ooops, most of it hits the shower doors instead. The other problem is that I don’t know what to do with the empty shampoo package. I try to place it on the shower tray, but the crumpled package falls right through. As the water pours over me, and I stare at the transparent doors, I wonder why they make shower doors like windows. It’s not like the toilet is a beautiful view. And who wants someone to look in, when they’re scrubbing down there? All the fun quickly dissolves, just like the soap, which midway through the shower pops out of my hand to land into the pool of bubbles below. The water refuses to go easily down the drain – perhaps the drain is too tiny as well. In any case, I soon find myself banging my head against the shower door as I search for the soap in the water below. It’s good that the soap is the exact colour as the shower floor. It’s not so bad, because I can wipe my head against the shower doors, soaking up the last bit of shampoo that landed there earlier. By this time, however, the shampoo has begun dripping into my eyes, so I must resort to locating the submerged soap with my toes. When I think I’ve found it, I slip. Fearing a tragic fall, I grab onto the showerhead cord, which wraps around my neck, choking me. Tied up, I stare down at the tiny bar of soap, which lies only inches away. I try to grab the tiny mangled soap cluster with my eyelashes, but the soap slips away, laughing at me, slowly twirling down the drain, “Weeee!” The room turns an ominous absinthe colour, shrieking violins play, and Alfred Hitchcock’s bulbous profile appears. Gasping, I ask him to help me, but instead, he just mutters something witty in his cute British accent, and walks away. Worst of all, the water is still needlessly running – bye, bye mother earth.