Fiction Fridays: My Weekends


This is another one of my short stories from my Creative Writing class from last semester. It was such a fun class to do, and I really got into the creativity aspect of it all. This is about my weekends, it's about my "love" for cleaning the bathroom on the weekends. Which I really do not enjoy doing, per se, but it was a hoot to write about at least! 

5. My Weekends
(Do not Copy)

Weekends are not normally filled with excitement-at least not mine. There’s something about me that is a deterrent for fun. While others are having an epic weekend at the park, sipping on Starbucks’ frothy iced coffees, or taking a stroll at the mall, I am at home. And not only am I just at home, I am part of a demolition project where I am strapped to scuba gear, while half of my body is submerged in gummy potty water, excavating the toilet upstairs. So when people ask me what my weekend consists of, or what I did do on the weekend, I manage a weak smile and, in an enthusiastically fake way, say, “I was mining for fool’s gold with a jackhammer, scuba gear, and Scrubby Bubbles…”
             Oh boy, cleaning is so fun. I look forward to it all week. The scrubbing, dusting, sneezing, itchy eyes… smelly, moldy, musty… Gee, there’s nothing better than having your arm halfway down the toilet drain scrubbing off your brother’s week old skid-marks. You know; the poop that got stuck to the side when the toilet was flushed. Yeah, that skid-mark stuff failed to follow the rest of its clan down the tube. So that, and a few other sections of the colorfully stained porcelain masterpiece, I am doing some heavy duty, manual labor on today. Right now I’m wondering if that jackhammer I rented is going to be strong enough for this job. I might need to take it back and rent that backhoe.
            Uh, good thing I am usually right there when I have to do that, because my breakfast tends to want to go the wrong way, and creates a nasty acidic burning taste in my mouth. Gross. But that’s not half as bad as having to chip away at the caked on whatever-it-is-that yellowish, brownish, greenish gunk-at the very top rim of the toilet. How stuff gets there, I have no clue, but I really don’t care, because an hour later the same stuff is there. It’s defeating having to repeat the horrifying cleaning process of the toilet a week later. Why can’t it just stay clean!
            I know! If I could somehow find a way to get rid of my brother, then my problems would be solved. There would be no peeing on the potty, no poop smeared to the sides and left to crust and corrode until the next weekend. I would be free from all that backbreaking excavation work that I’d have to do. No more ten-ton scuba gear strapped on my back. No more achy muscles. If my brother were gone, then I’d be a free person. Able to enjoy my weekends doing something other than cleaning-oh, I meant demolishing the toilet and chipping away at its encrusted innards as if it were practically an artistic statue that I was restoring.
            Alas, I am destined to be the forever employee of the Crust Stripper Demolishing and Excavating business-employed by my mom, the head honcho of the corporation. Maybe I should ask for a raise or something. I mean, all this work for what-a clean toilet for exactly two and a half seconds? That’s so cheap! I don’t see anyone else sacrificing their weekend to make sure everyone’s tuckus can have a satisfactory place to put themselves when performing bodily functions. The fantastic cleaning job-a pearly white, glistening porcelain toilet, with no caked on poop or yellowish tinted pee stains-is brought to you by moi. Nope, no need to thank me. You’re welcome. As if.


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