The plunger makes a sound like a reluctant kiss. The water stirs. The paper does not move.
The water rose. Not with the confident swirl of a job well done, but with the slow, ominous deliberation of a creature waking from a long nap. It hesitated at the rim. It stared at me. Then, ever so politely, it stopped. my toilet is clogged with toilet paper
The bowl was now a porcelain swamp, and at its heart—visible through the murky water like a lost manuscript—was a dense, pulpy log of toilet paper. Not waste. Just paper. Clean, white, expensive, three-ply paper. My toilet, it seemed, had staged a quiet protest against my overindulgence. The plunger makes a sound like a reluctant kiss