Dear Empty Toilet Roll,Much as I understand and appreciate your existence, the need for you to be around, once you can be seen, I do not wish to see you. I don’t mind seeing your grey circular end when you’re tightly wrapped in toilet paper, because then you have a purpose. Then you belong in my bathroom. However, when I can see the whole of your cardboard, cylindrical, hateful piggish body, my immense hatred for you kicks in.
When you’re naked, showing yourself in all your need-to-be-in-the-bin glory, I want to take you in my hands and squeeze you so hard you become a crumpled shadow of your former self. The rage inside me is so bad that I’ve even envisaged murdering you. Yes, many a time I’ve let the scenario run through my mind, where I sneak up on you, lift you gently from wherever your unwanted arse is at the time, and rip you to effing shreds.
I do not wish to see you sitting smugly on my toilet roll holder. I do not wish to see you on top of the cistern. I do not wish to see you lounging—yes, lounging, you lazy shit!—on my bathroom floor. And I particularly do not want to see you on my windowsill. Let me tell you this, and listen to me well: You do not belong in my house when you’re in the buff.
You belong in the bin. If you’re unsure where that is, it’s beside the toilet. Inside the bin is a yellow, lemon-scented bin bag, and you’ll be most welcomed by the empty toothpaste box, the old slither of dried up soap, and the empty shower gel bottles. They will become your friends, and once the bin is full, you will be transported off to find many other such friends, where you will live happily ever after.
Please be aware that next time I see you without your clothes on, you’d better roll away pretty damn fast, because if you don’t, I’m going to self-combust and rage through the house until I find out just WHO ISN’T PUTTING YOU IN THE EFFING BIN!
Yours hatefully,
Sarah Masters
