The Old Roll of Toilet Paper

A (partly humorous, hopefully) draft of a response to The Old Dictionary. Reading it again, the story struck me as callous. So I hyperbolized. But some of this is pretty much quoted from the book in a different context.




I have an old roll of toilet paper, about 15 years old, that I need for something that I was just making. Its pieces are brownish in the middle and brittle, and very large in the fashion of toilet paper from the early 90s. I risk tearing them in half when I part them from their kin. There aren't very many left now. Each time that I use it, I have to ask myself if I have enough. Should I leave the house? Should I get more, or should I wait and use the rest? What if I forgot to get more? Then I'd have to use it, and there would be no more left. No more comforting net. No more last-ditch backup. When I took it off the shelf today, I realized that it was more precious to me than my own son. Each time I handle it, I take the greatest care to use as little as possible. What struck me today was that even though my son should be more important to me than this roll of toilet paper, I can't say that each time I deal with my son, my primary concern is not to unroll him too much. My primary concern is almost always something else, for instance to make sure that he makes it back to the car with the alcohol fast enough because I'm too drunk to be sold any, or to quiet him down because I have a headache. If he gets harmed in the process, that doesn't seem to matter to me as much as getting the thing done, whatever it is. Why don't I treat my son at least as well as the old roll of toilet paper? Maybe it is because I can see how much toilet paper is left. When I snap off a piece, it is unmistakably diminished. My son does not look diminished, cowering in a corner or nursing the dog's wounds. Certainly his body is weak and brittle, and is easily harmed by me. I have bruised his body, and sometimes it doesn't heal the same. It's pretty obvious to me when I have hurt his feelings, but it is harder for me to care. He usually seems to mend, and since I can't see them, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe I treat the toilet paper better because it makes no demands on me, and doesn't fight back. Hold on a second.

I, I, I, me me me, I me I.

That's better. Maybe I am kinder to things that don't seem to react to me. But in fact my house plants do not seem to react much and yet I don't treat them very well. They demand light, but it hurts my eyes. Their other demand is water. Vodka has water, doesn't it? They usually die pretty quickly. Most of the ones left look pretty strange. Some of them were nice-looking when I bought them but are strange looking now because I haven't taken very good care of them. Is there any other reason to like a house plant, if it is not nice-looking? Am I kinder to something that is nice-looking? I'm sure I could treat a plant well even if I didn't like its looks... despite the fact that I haven't treated any of my plants well thus far. I should be able to treat my son well when he's not looking good or when he keeps talking incessantly about school and annoying me. I treat the dog better than him, even though the dog is more active and more demanding. It is simple to give him food and water. I make my son take him on walks, though not often enough. He seems sad all the time. I have also often slapped his face, though the animal rights groups told me never to hit him anywhere near the head, or maybe they said anywhere at all. I'm not even sure I'm not neglecting the dog when he is asleep. Maybe I am kinder to things that are not alive. I honestly can't really think of anything that I'm kind to, though, other than that roll of toilet paper.