Beneath every bathroom sink there exists a city, an uncharted territory, an Atlantis of sorts. The cities begin as beautiful, spotless plots with breathtaking vistas and few occupants.
Before long, however, the masses start to pile in as news of a hot new spot spreads. Soon, there is no more room, and there are dwellings upon dwellings upon dwellings. No more room to move, no room to breathe.
No one ever permanently leaves and only a select few go on vacation. Except for one inhabitant, Dry Shampoo. Dry is a bumptious individual who boasts on his frequent vacations in the outside world. He exhausts himself being so prideful. Every now and then he becomes so empty from his constant bragging that he has to be replaced with a younger, sleeker version of himself. Sadly, every version seems to have the same personality flaws.
Most of the cities’ residents are not so bold. Rather, they are dull and fade very easily into the background like sad little wallflowers. For years, they sit unwanted, unused, pushed aside for something else. There they sit, in the dark ruins underneath bathroom sinks, until one day they expire.
But, even in death they are not freed from their captivity within the city walls. Oh no, there is no respite for them. Ages past their expiration they lie in wait hoping, wishing, praying to see the light.
Finally, on some spring morning, once a decade or so, hope does come for a brief and shining moment. On those days, when the lord or lady of a sad little city beneath the sink is feeling particularly merciful, light floods into the city washing over its residents. Exposed to the light the overcrowded cities look less like a mass of individuals and more like a giant melted glob of plastic and desperation.
One by one the lord or lady plucks the unsuspecting inhabitants from their hiding places among the rubble and the city is purged of the refuse and chaos.
Then the city is rebuilt. Some city dwellers return, gently placed into neat rows where they are expected to live out the rest of their days in perfect harmony. Others, the long expired ones, are finally freed from their dark prisons beneath the sink.
Those that return give praise for their safety and stand a little taller, hoping that maybe the light will flood in once more and they too will get a vacation. Many will never know the feeling of a holiday in the sun. However, some will get to experience the joy of being specially picked. The others will chant in sheer excitement for them: “You go Hairspray! Good for you!”, “Yay, Lotion! You deserve it!”, “Whoop whoop for Anti-Aging Face Cream! You go, girl!”
And so life is beneath bathroom sinks, the lost cities of our age. They rise, they fall. They break down, they regroup and rebuild. Plenty of sadness, a bit of happiness, and a lot of oddities combined. Ah, life beneath the bathroom sink.