I haven’t told this story before but it’s true, and it happened around the early 2000s while I was at university. In the back of my mind I’ve always thought (hoped) that it was all just friends messing with me, some kind of prank, which we certainly weren’t above playing on each other back then. Part of me always thought there wasn’t anything to worry about, not really.
I don’t think that anymore. You’ll see why.
One thing having IBS has taught me is that in any big building, there’ always a better bathroom. Cleaner, more private, and little known to people who have the luxury of properly functioning guts.
I won’t gross you out with the specifics, but let’s just say I prefer to be alone when I gotta go. And I gotta go often.
I’m not writing this to raise awareness of IBS. I’d actually prefer zero awareness of mine in particular, but it is what got me here.
In around 2002, my search for the perfect bathroom led me to the fourth floor in the least populated department and the least used bathroom in my university. I honestly think I might’ve been the only person who ever used it during that time – I’d never so much as smelt another soul, or their business, in there before.
So I go in there a bunch of times, and while my guts are cramping and bubbling and splashing (sorry), I take in the graffiti scratched and penned all around me. This is some historical ghosts of the past type stuff, from when this building was more popular. I don’t know when that was, but it’s an old university, and a musty old building with ivy and everything.
You might think it’s weird that I still remember the graffiti all these years later. Well, like I said, I had to go often, and I went in that particular bathroom almost every day. I got to know my surroundings. And back then, we didn’t have phones to keep us company while we popped a squat. Or if we did, all we could really do on them was play Snake. Anyway, some graffiti masterpieces included:
“Rachel R has dry pusy” – P-U-S-Y, with just the one s. Poor Rachel R, eh?
“7.C = false” – a helpful dude trying to help fellow exam takers out, once upon a time?
“Bango skank was here” – this sounds familiar, like I’ve read it somewhere… ring a bell for anyone else?
“you were never really here?” – like that, with the question mark. For some reason I quite liked that one. A bit of bathroom existentialism.
And of course, bathroom stall graffiti staples the world over: breasts and genitalia of varying sizes, drawn by people of varying levels of artistic ability. One disturbingly realistic dick with veins and wrinkles and all. I wonder if it was a self-portrait? Some charmer had added an arrow and a “ur mum woz here”.
Then one day, something new. It stood out against all the old scratchings, fresh and bright. In dark green marker, screaming in all caps, right above the toilet roll holder:
IS ANYBODY THERE? :(
It was the sad face that got me. My first thought was, ah shit, someone found what I’d started to consider my private bathroom, but then I found myself focusing on that sad face. How desperately alone a bloke would have to feel to come in here and display that secret sadness, where they thought nobody would ever see it. But maybe hoped someone would.
So I dug a marker out my bag and I replied:
“Hey :) I’m here.”
I really fuckin wish I never did that.
I finished my business and I felt good about myself and I went about my day.
Next day, cramping guts, I make my way to my bathroom after class. I’d actually forgotten about the graffiti, but I noticed it as soon as I settled in. A response, same green pen, all in caps:
I AM BLOBBY. WHO RU? :)
Now, I can only attribute how uncomfortable this made me to a vague childhood memory of a disgusting children’s TV character called Mr Blobby. If you don’t know him, go google, he’s terrifying. He’s a huge pink sort of bowling pin-shaped thing, covered in sickly yellow spots, and he wears this insane floppy bow tie. He has this permanent clown grin with big red lips, a piggish nose, and huge round rolling eyes that always look a little narrowed in anger, surrounded by fat, jagged black lashes. And his voice. His voice was the worst. It sounded like multiple voices of different pitches all speaking as one. Whoever approved this demonic nightmare for children’s television should be in jail.
I don’t remember much about his show, other than I saw it when I was little and immediately burst into tears. I had recurring nightmares about Blobby for a long, long time afterwards. He became my personal boogeyman, and just the thought of him, even now, still unsettles me. I get chills even picturing the empty Blobby costume, probably sitting wrapped in plastic somewhere, things crawling over his wide, staring eyes as he grins and grins…
Needless to say, reading the name Blobby gave me an unexpected and unpleasant little shock. I remember sitting there, spilling my guts, and feeling all in a cold sweat. I became acutely aware that I was essentially trapped in a small space, unable to leave – IBS waits for no man. Jockeys round my ankles, ass hanging out over the water. Not a good state to be in when that fight or flight response kicks in, let me tell you. And suddenly, very quiet, but very close…
A giggle.
A soft tittering, like a little girl stifling a laugh behind chubby fingers.
The giggling and Mr Blobby merged in my head, and all I could picture was him, Blobby, pressed up against the wall of the neighbouring stall, listening and oh so quietly chuckling.
I held my breath and did my best to still my roiling guts and listened, even put my ear against the wall. For a long while, there was nothing except my walloping heartbeat.
Then suddenly, much louder, the high pitched tittering again! It went on and on. I just sat, frozen, knees pulled together in what was probably some instinct to protect my soft bits, and both hands pressed hard over my mouth. My eyes must have been bugging out of my head, I was so scared.
The laughter was unnatural. High pitched, but somehow false, like a man imitating a little girl.
It stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. I cleaned myself up and waited, straining to hear anything, the door to the bathroom, noises of someone sneaking out of the stall, even a normal laugh or a “got you!” from what I hoped was a silly prankster tormenting me. Nothing.
I flushed and warily opened my stall door, peering out first through the crack. I searched the bathroom, which didn’t take long, it was small. I opened each of the other two stalls, took a peek out the main door into the hallway. I hadn’t really noticed before, as I’d generally been on autopilot when coming in or out, but the door gave a distinctive squeak. I should’ve heard it if someone came in or out. Anyway, no one was around. I was alone.
That was my first interaction with Blobby.
I’m taking a break, writing this was surprisingly stressful. I’ll be back with the rest.