After mounting pressure from family and friends, local woman Lisa Williams has, albeit reluctantly, agreed to take up space. Like many of her gender, Williams has felt the agonizing pressure of needing to fit into teeny tiny spaces. For most women, this pressure manifests itself in crossing of the legs on trains, immediately moving to get out of the way of men, and apologizing even when they were the ones who were ran into. But for Williams, this pressure manifested more intensely. Without the moderation of reason, Williams sought to fit the social constraint by obeying it as literally as possible. It was truly terrible. She was frequently known to curl herself into a ball and roll across the floor in order to avoid the daily confrontations that women face when they seek to stand and move across a room. Her anxieties, though tremendous, were somewhat calmed by her loved ones’ assurance that she does, in fact, have the right to take up space. They just urged her not to be obnoxious while doing so, out of fear that she might overcompensate, and manspread.
Sitting on the toilet with his pants at his ankles, Tom Hickerson cried out to the emptiness of his apartment in anguish. “Is anybody home?” He asked, knowing the answer was no, that he was the only person in the two-bedroom rental, and that he alone would be the only human alive to hear his own desperate pleas for someone to hand him another roll. He knew help wasn’t coming. This realization sank in as the toilet became cold on his thighs, and a little sticky. He was highly uncomfortable with that feeling, and also with the fact that this was his comeuppance, his smelly, lazy, quasi-planned comeuppance, because his roommates had both seen that the toilet paper needed to be replaced, and they both thought that they’d make Tom do it this one fucking time. It was only a matter of time before he did a sad little half-waddle to the cupboard in the hallway to get another roll; but that would be giving in, and Tom, being a stubborn little bastard, held on a moment more. At press time, Tom had his pants up again and there was still no roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, because Tom is an asshole, and he used a Kleenex.
“If I watch this show again, maybe I’ll understand something I didn’t understand the other five times I watched it,” said local man, Brad Smith, who has not left his apartment all weekend. “My sister has been on me about doing something with more meaning–finding a hobby, doing a small weekend trip, somewhere nice like Poughkeepsie. But I’d rather not do anything. I think if I re-watched this show that I’ve spent hundreds of hours on already, I can grow and develop the same amount as if I, I don’t know, hiked the Grand Canyon.” Smith said he was aware that with the literal weeks he has spent watching and re-watching this show that doesn’t even have great reviews on Netflix, like honestly it’s very much the epitome of trash television, he could have legitimately learned another language. Probably only a love language like French or Spanish, but still, he could have been on his way to bilingualism. “And I know all this, I do,” Smith said. “I’ve thought about this in between episodes. I have bouts of terrible existential anxiety because I am able to accurately quantify the time I have wasted on my shitty life. I know all of this, but am I excited, truly excited, to see what happens at the end of season 7 the sixth time in a row? Definitely.”