(c) Arguments With My Toilet (PG-13)

by **rock and/or roll** Mon 05 Jan 2009, 12:07 am

Title: Arguments With My Toilet
Author: Me (Smashed Pumpkin)
Rating: PG-13 for language and imagery (?)
Fandom: My Chemical Romance; Gerard centered.
Summary:
It's 3am and Gerard's wasted.
He's sitting on the bathroom floor.
He's talking to his toilet.
It's always been an opinonated ass.

-
Stream of consciousness kind of thing, really.
Credit to the talking toilet idea goes to comedian Adam Hills and Scrubs.

Arguments With My Toilet.

He’s talking again. He’s talking and talking and he won’t shut up and it’s driving a fucking blunt screwdriver into my skull...Blunt screwdriver? Oh my dear fudgsicles, I must have thrown up my eloquence along with my stomach contents. What am I talking about? I despise fudgsicles...what the hell is a fudgsicle?

A fudge-flavoured popsicle? Probably tastes like chocolate.

Like I’m going to believe you, talking toilet.

Note to stupid self: You know what would be cool, Gerard? If you carried a small pocket thesaurus around in your pocket when you’re drunk. Or a dictionary. Or something with words in it. Or maybe you could just walk – or crawl- to the end of the street and stare at the street signs. They look pretty in the moonlight, you know. All metallic-like and shiny.

It’s always the drunkards...

Ha, he’s angry, I can tell. You know exactly what it tastes like, don’t you? Bitter bastard. What was it? Three Vodkas, a Jim Beam and Coke...

Straight Whiskey. I feel like overflowing.

That explains the aftertaste. Wait...he’s still talking.

Orange and Vodka.

My head hurts...like a sprained ankle...but on my head. Like the foot on the end of my sprained ankle is kicking the shit out of my brain. I should just stop thinking shouldn’t I? Thinking hurts. I need aspirin. Or...or...a cold towel with cold water in it...or frozen peas in a bag. But, ew, frozen peas taste rank...they taste like water. If I wanted to taste water, I’d go drink some. Or dunk my head in the bath for that matter.

Rest your face against the tiles. It’s cold, right? That’s why some people faint when they step from warm carpet onto tiles...the change is too sudden.

Huh. So you’re not just full of shit.

Oh hahaha...

The floor looks like a peppermint from this angle. Wonder if it tastes like one.

Apparently not.

Dear god, the company I keep...

Stupid misleading sun, making the floor look all pretty and colourful and red. That must have been the single most – or if not that, the second most – disgusting, gross, putrid...and...and a whole lot of other synonyms for foul thing, that I have stuck my tongue to.

Wait, it’s not even daytime. Stupid misleading lights making me think it was daytime.

Oh god, there’s a hair caught between my teeth. He’s laughing now, the bastard. You bastard. You’re lucky you don’t have arms, otherwise I’d blame this on you.

You always find some way. Maybe you should consider blaming it on Mr Alcohol.

Shut up, what do you know? You’re made of porcelain. You live on a diet of shit and piss, I mean, that’s just gross, almost as gross as the floor... you think I’m going to listen to what you have to say? For the love of fudgsicles, you just ate my vomit.

I thought you hated fudgsicles.

Irrelevant.

And it’s not like you gave me much choice. Is there ever a warning? “Oh, I’m just going to vomit now, if that’s okay with you?” No...It’s always “Blergh!” and it goes everywhere!...and one more thing-

Haha, yeah...I did eat corn crackers tonight.

Well...It’s been swell arguing with you again, talking toilet, but nap time calls.

You do know that I’m not actually talking to you right?...that I’m just an extension of your drunken mind? Subconscious maybe?

You’re always looking for a way to not be responsible for your actions, aren’t you?

Goodnight Gerard.

Good early morning, talking toilet.
checked tb