Bathroom Trashcan story
You truly do anything to please my wicked spirit, eating the disgusting hair I've collected from all my brushes and swallowing my ash without hesitation, because you know how harmful it is but do it out of a sick, perverted love, worshiping every single hair as a holy relic. I use you as a human ashtray and a spittoon, my filth your food, my saliva your drink, and I slap you with the flat of my hand, my loser bathroom trashcan, because each blow is a form of communication and affection that only we understand. You end up on the floor, a trembling, empty-yet-full paradox, my masterpiece of self-destruction, because you are a living, breathing trash can who will love and suffer and swallow everything until I have no more use for you and throw you away.