The construction workers didn’t know where the toilet in the rotted out building had come from. It wasn’t hooked up to any plumbing, it didn’t flush, and yet it always stayed reasonably clean–and for some reason, they all felt compelled to use it when they were on the job. However, the toilet isn’t really a toilet–it’s you.

You aren’t really a toilet, but that’s how you’ve the witch cursed you to be seen, all those years ago, back in college. You remained in your frat house for a while, but since then you’ve spent years being moved from place to place, servicing filthier and filthier men. By now, you’ve stopped trying to get them to hear you or see you for what you are. You wouldn’t want them to–your skin caked with filth–your body obese and bloated with thousands of pounds of shit and piss. They approach, you open, they do their business, they wipe their crack with your long, filthy beard, and then they leave. It’s the only life you remember now, and the only life you know you’ll ever want.