Little Pot of Horrors

Any day now, I am almost certain, I expect to hear the toilet in my apartment bathroom say, “Feed me!” The carpeted seat lid will rise up on its own accord and begin mimicking speech movement. It will beg for toilet paper and toxic matter. Although growth is unlikely, musical debuts prove threatening. It is only a matter of time before this elimination machine takes on a life of its own.

For the last couple months, the noises from the precious porcelain evacuator have increased in frequency and volume. It’s actually reached a point of distraction. At night, while lying in bed, I find that my mind latches on to the constant gurgles and odd swallows it shouts throughout the day. Sometimes it serves as a lullaby of sorts, encouraging a sound slumber. Other times, however, this bathroom fixture is such an obnoxious noise maker that I have to isolate it from its friends. A timeout with the door closed will surely teach him a lesson!

I have jiggled the handle. I have taken the lid off to explore the tank; poking and lifting things in fear of provoking a flood. This doesn’t get me very far in the solution box since function, thankfully, is not a problem. And every time I fiddle around in fear of breaking something that will, no doubt, create a disaster, I am reminded of the catchy little phrase, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Does this apply to everything? Does it apply in this situation? Is it possible my toilet is destined for fame, and I’m standing…or sitting…in its way? I guess, just like a breaking point, broke can sometimes be determined by choice.