I sigh. And I realize: this isn’t a plumbing problem. It’s a confession. My toilet isn’t broken. It’s judging me.
I flushed.
The plunger makes a sound like a reluctant kiss. The water stirs. The paper does not move. my toilet is clogged with toilet paper
I waited. Nothing. I jiggled the handle—that universal gesture of bathroom futility. Still nothing. The paper simply sat there, absorbing water, growing in both size and confidence. It had formed a perfect seal. My toilet wasn’t just clogged; it was committed . I sigh
It started innocently enough. A standard bathroom visit. Nothing heroic, nothing sinister. I did my duty, reached for the roll, and pulled off what I considered a reasonable amount of toilet paper. Then, because I am a believer in abundance, I pulled off a little more. And then, just to be safe, a little more than that. My toilet isn’t broken
And so here I am, plunger in hand, staring down at the consequences of my own softness. Somewhere out there, ancestors are turning in their graves. They used corncobs and old newspapers. They never feared the flush. But me? I’ve been defeated by the very thing designed to clean me.