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Stumbling haphazardly in a hurried rush to the toilet, Scott slams through the open door and flips open the lid of the nearby porcelain in a surprisingly nimble display of practiced athleticism. Crouching over, hands on his knees, a waterfall of vaguely red and still foamy liquid mix of unprocessed beer and stomach acid spill from his open mouth. Droplets of uncontained vomit spray along the back rim of the bowl and down the sides, adding fresh coloration to the dried stains of previously similar experiences long since neglected. Giving a few final heaves, Scott regains his breath and slumps down around the base of the toilet, his drunken body ignoring what would normally be extreme discomfort on the hard tile. He closes his eyes momentarily, head laying precariously on his outstretched arm, and accidentally falls asleep.
Waking with horrible pain in his left shoulder, Scott realizes he passed out on the floor of the bathroom again. Gathering himself up with a few groans, the dryness of his mouth combined with the caked-on aftertaste of vomit on his tongue make his most immediate need some water. Hands cupped below the faucet like an old-timey orphan begging for another crust of bread, the gathered pools of water slurped up like an animal only serve to amplify the taste of old bile. He considers brushing his teeth, but is too exhausted to prepare his toothbrush and physically make the motion required by the action. He carries his body to his bed down the hall, sloughs off his pants and shoes, and enters into another all-encompassing slumber.
This time when Scott awakes, it is with a pounding headache and rumbling bowels. Putting his legs through the holes of an elastic-waisted pair of athletic shorts, he makes his way back to the bathroom with a melancholy anticipation of what is about to come. First popping a few Ibuprofens for his head, he finally sits down on the still-stained surface of where his face had been nearly resting just a few hours prior. Much like his earlier visit, another waterfall explodes from an opened orifice, although this time it is accompanied by gaseous explosions and stutteringly false endings. Peering beneath his legs to take a glance at the scene below him, he notes the consistency and color of his creation with equal parts horror and fascination that something so vile could have been brewing inside his very own body. Realizing with a start that he neglected to turn on the fan, and that the can of perfumed aerosol spray in the closet was unsurprisingly empty, he decides that the brothers he shared the bathroom with were simply going to have to deal with the awful stench his bodily waste had produced. No point in taking shame in it now. Finally opting for a bit of oral hygiene, he squeezes out a bit of toothpaste and does what seemed so difficult to accomplish last night. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he runs his free hand through his hair a few times and decides he better wear a hat to the day rager later in the afternoon. Tossing his toothbrush down, he applies a bit of deodorant and is back out the door.
Coming back to the house, Scott decides he better start getting ready for the pregame starting soon. Stepping into the shower for the first time all day, he gently rests his just-opened beer on the outside rim of the tub, protected from the majority of the errant water splashes he is sure to generate. Trying to maximize efficiency, Scott shampoos his hair and applies some body wash at the same time. Although he and his roommates have tacitly and silently agreed to a “no jerking it in the shower” policy due to the shared commonality of the space, any brother found to be taking an unusually long time in the tub is immediately assumed to be masturbating and is gratuitously called out as doing so. Shutting off the hot water, Scott dries off, steps out, and runs another few quick finger through his hair to place it. Applying a new coat of deodorant, Scott decides his hygiene is all but done and walks down to his room, towel still wrapped around his waist. Popping in a few more times after he dresses to make sure his hair is on point, he begins drinking aggressively and soon loses any interest in his appearance at all.
As the rest of his brothers call down from the hallway, ready to leave for the bars, Scott and his new friend Ashley sneak into the bathroom for one final preparation. Scott reveals a small bag of white powder and is about to pour out a line on the counter when Ashley intercedes, pulling down her shirt and bra a bit to reveal a good bit of chest. “Do it off here,” she says slyly, pointing down with her eyes at her exposed cleavage. Scott smiles enthusiastically, drapes a little white line across her smooth skin, and presses his face into her heaving breasts. Coming back up, they begin to make out just as a rough knock on the door interrupts them. The pounding shouts signal they have to leave, and they unceremoniously make their exit to the sound of even more jeers and calls. Finally, the house is quiet. The bathroom sits dark and stolid, in a moment of brief respite from the horrors of the day. Soon, it will happen all over again..