Premium Story #5: The Party-Pooper

(Content Tags: Surrealism, Cosmic horror, Alternate fates, Diapers, Messing, Farting, Public humiliation, Altered perception of intelligence, Weight gain, Status loss, Messy food play, Slob behavior, Feelings of pointlessness) Please. Not this. Anything but this. 'Happy birthday to you...' What sort of divine punishment could this be? What sort of tragic comedy had my life been forced to become? 'Happy birthday to you!' Was there no justice? Was there no decency? Did I truly live in a cruel cosmos run by a petty prankster? 'Happy birthday, dear Oscar...' That was a name that should have been respected! It was a name that should strike adulation and praise! It was a name fit for a leader, not for whatever slovenly form I'd been forced to take! 'Happy birthday to you!' It was my birthday, but it wasn't happy. It was my birthday, but I wasn't myself anymore. It was my birthday, but that didn't mean I was getting another year wiser. If there was a god out there, and if he had a filing cabinet, then he'd surely made some mistakes here; things were not where they belonged, and the ordering of those precious documents were out of sorts. That could really be the only explanation; that, or I was currently in the middle of dying, and this was some hallucinogenic episode being brought on by the last pitter-pattering sparks of the brain I'd once considered my greatest treasure. Yes, mercifully just an ocean of DMT flooding my brain in my last bizarre moments. It was one thing to be living a life that wasn't my own, but it was another thing to be watching the same thing play out in a parallel reality with a smaller version of myself. It'd been like that all day, at least for the parts I was fully cognizant for; it was as though there was a giant mirror being lifted to the world, localized to me, but in it was a reflection that was just a little different. Frankly not different enough. If I could foist all this humiliation onto that other me, then I would in an instant. What made it all the worse? There were three mirrors total. Yup, four parallel realities all coinciding in one space, as if I was surrounded by giant 3D television screens that nobody else could see, or immense stages where plays were being performed. I didn't know if the other three had any claim to being the real McCoy, and honestly I didn't care; some might condemn that as solipsistic thinking, but those psuedo-philosophical dorks had hardly been in anything approaching this. There was my reality, where I'd woken this morning to find myself as being a mentally retarded loser who shits himself in diapers. My physique was shit, my hygiene was obviously shit, my reputation was shit, and the giant adult diaper I had woken up in, was absolutely packed with, you guessed it, shit. Then, as a cruel reminder of what things were supposed to be, one of the mirrored realities had a normal me. It had the me that woke up next to his girlfriend, the me with a six-pack and neatly coiffed hair, the me that was a master bureaucrat in the prime of his career. He got to wake up in boxers that weren't full of his own sticky, stinking feces. Each of us then had a mirror held up to the past, to the halcyon days of prepubescent innocence; for the normal 'me', it looked like a direct link to a memory I myself had. It was my tenth birthday, and as I changed out of my pajamas, it was clear that I was very excited for the birthday where I hit the double-digits. My reflection? Similar in theory, but warped to fit the insanity that I'd woken to. A somewhat chubby boy with a drooly pacifier, stirring in a juvenile bed with toddler rails, and sitting with a nasty squish emanating from his conspicuously bulging footed sleeper. He was turning ten too, ostensibly, but mentally he was likely closer to turning two. It was madness, and I prayed for it to be a nightmare, but it wasn't one I could break away from. No blaring alarm clock would save me, no gentle prodding from my loving partner, not even the pain of a full bladder from a night of celebratory drinking. No, as mixed up as it all was, it was happening in a very physical realm. Every sensation, every sound, every smell, every taste, everything around me was material. It continued to be material at every little point, while the immaterial was projected just outside of reach, as if to mock me. I wasn't capable of explaining anything to anyone; there were so few words this form was capable of creating from its mouth, and none of them were the least bit helpful; while my mind remained intact, it was as useful as tits on a boar, at least for all the intellect I could outwardly project. So I had to take the humiliation without argument, one painful piece at a time, while nobody around me knew anything was remotely wrong. The party itself was a cruel affair; me and my younger self weren't given anything more than a paper party hat, and the diapers around our waist. In contrast, the normal me and the past me, were dressed respectably for the occasion, and it was clearly more centered around them, instead of having them as an excuse for a family get-together. It was during the party where walls began to break down, which hadn't just been an unexpected development, but was one that made the nightmare far more cruel. I would first notice it when a colleague from the 'normal' party came across the yard to get a drink from the table, and he somehow passed into my current slice of reality. The disgust mixed with pity and amusement, whenever he laid his eyes on my dilapidated form, was absolutely soul-crushing. There was shock, but not nearly enough to make it apparent that he understood the truth of my dilemma; this conflicting state of being would become more apparent whenever I heard him talk: "Aw, poor guy... The accident messed him up a lot more than Bella let on...What a terrible way to spend your birthday." He was talking to himself, but he wasn't giving the backstory that this reality appeared to initially work off of; it would seem, that by crossing the boundaries, that the reality he personally inhabited would become a mix of the two he had personally encountered. The colleague didn't see me as someone who had always been like this, but as someone who had become brain damaged after being the version from across the yard. I would see this happen a few more times, across the different boundaries of the four squares, and it looked as though things worked the same like that. If someone walked from the older reality to the younger reality, or vice-versa, then their relationship to me would completely shift to become contextually appropriate to the situation. The same power was not afforded to me, nor did I think it was afforded to the three other versions of me, none of whom I suspected even had the same split view of differing fates that I did. No matter what I tried, I couldn't cross over the boundary lines, and even if I could, how would that have helped? It would just mean that I'd be baring my big diapered ass to an audience that was less accustomed to seeing it. No, what I needed was a way to exit this form altogether, because something else was starting to happen; whatever clerical error in the cosmos that had caused this, seemed to be trying to rectify itself in the worst way. I was losing control of this body, of this form, and it was starting to act how it should, not how I wanted it to. The issue wasn't only physical, as my mind would become numb too, for minutes at a time, like I was on heavy medication, and then my body would act on autopilot. The party would persist like this, on an on, through all the typical motions that a good birthday should; normal me got a Rolex and a vintage bottle of wine, while I was made to unwrap a giant box of diapers and a plastic cooking set for playing pretend. Normal me got to hobnob and crack jokes, while people talked about me as though I wasn't even here. Seeing the younger realities was just as disheartening, because I was forced to look into a heartwarming past on one end, and then the twisted mirror of it on the other. Both little boys appeared just as happy as the other, but only one was spared any indignity. Finally, it came time for cake, and that was where everything went horribly wrong. Normal me and past me were set at a table, surrounded by friends and family, and the candles were lit with pride. For the dumb versions of me, we were sat on a tarp on the ground, and a cheaper, separate cake was provided to be our personal treat, while the nicer ones would be for the guests. As they sang the birthday song, and I felt my mind slipping away from me, it became apparent why the separate cakes were necessary. Whenever I blew out my candle, unfortunately missing my wish opportunity in the process, I definitely spewed spittle all across the top of the chocolate frosting. Sitting there with my legs splayed out to the sides, I would then begin to shovel the chocolatey goodness into my mouth with my bare hands. It got all over me, from my hands, to my face, to my chubby tummy, to the front of my diaper; gooey crumbs moistened by drool, and frosting that was melting in the sun, got smeared everywhere. I was aware, but control felt impossible. The sugar of the cake appeared to be dulling whatever little bodily control I'd previously had. While gobbling up more, I began to pepper my diaper with airy toots, which grew wetter and more forceful with every bite I crammed into my slobbering maw. Finally, after feeling a warm rosebud blooming right from my slackened sphincter, I shakily got onto my feet. Was I going to prove my intellectual worth by demanding a toilet? Hardly. No, the gurgling pressure that followed that first dollop of waste, would instead be cherished as an opportunity for fun. With my chubby thighs jiggling, I awkwardly turned myself around, showing my padded bottom to the guests of the party, many of which I would find had crossed over after the cutting of the cake. My knees would bend and my bottom would lower, until just a little bit of frosting was making contact with the back of the sweaty adult diaper I'd been heaving around all afternoon. With a grunt, I pushed and farted much worse than before, the note a long-winded announcement of the near future. This scatological sonnet, entirely provided by the worst brass and woodwind sections imaginable, would become entertainment for my onlookers. Looking across the yard, this act was being mirrored almost perfectly by the smaller me, whose audience itself was more juvenile, and therefore far more openly jovial about the sight. Kids were cruel, after all, and they were immature, so what better to amuse them than the potty-flunking stylings of a diapered moron? My audience on the other hand, was comprised of native members who saw me as having always been so grossly bold, and who hardly batted an eye, but with a secondary chunk of spectators knowing me as once having been an impressive specimen of a man; for the migrants, who weren't even aware of the reality shifting they were doing, they appeared horrified to see me participating in the opening act of what would clearly become the least dignified thing a person could do. Even if they hadn't seen me in this mentally retarded position beforehand, it was all too obvious where this gassy halftime show ultimately lead; coworkers, friends, acquaintances, all of whom had known me as a stoic and highly respected man, were now being forced to witness the horrifying nature of my loss. My face reddened, becoming as hot and sweaty as the rest of my flabby form, and my grunting became louder, completely unrestrained by personal pride. Finally, the strain paid dividends, and a massive pole of smelly mush pushed past my buttcheeks to slide into the bulky diaper. It landed with a muted thump, immediately causing the garment to sag lower against the tip of frosting my rump had been barely scraping. Where there was one, there would be more, with smaller logs of shit following sluggishly behind the first. Each piece was firmer, requiring shifting of my backside and knees, like a coordinated dance of keeping the poop valve wide open. Crackling and popping, crinkling and rustling, plopping and squishing. Still trapped behind insurmountable instinct, I eventually craned my neck over my shoulder with a chocolatey, slobbering grin, and I took my hand to intimately rub the padded seat that was now swollen with burning hot droppings. "Pooooo-pooooo..." I giggled, one of the few infantile words I was physically capable of, now making a special guest appearance to my degradation. With my other hand, I scooped up another chunk of cake, seemingly uncaring of the act I'd just scent-seasoned it with, and stuffed it sloppily against my mouth. It felt squishy between my fingers, an intoxicating sensation that overcame my ravenous hunger, so my attention turned to a new act to perform for my captive crowd: With another dumb giggle, I lowered my lumpy bottom further against the cake, and then let my full weight drop on top of it with an icky splat. The chocolate dessert immediately squished under the heft of my gluttonous form, spreading all across the plastic backing of my soiled diaper. Once on top of it, I began to fervently rock back and forth, intentionally squelching the moist baked good to the best of my dimwitted ability. While I did this, the burbling gas would return, and I would stop with an utterly vacant expression on my messy face; made still, intense yet muffled rumbling would stir up beneath me, the vibrations assuredly forcing not only the muck in my diaper to bubble and be blown around within, but also making the more emulsified portions of the cake do something similar. I felt more hot poop slipping into my diaper, softer and with less warning than before, but by no means quieter in its sputtering entry. The sensation numbed my mind even further, drool streaming down my chin and pooling onto my cake-spattered chest. There was almost a transcendental vibe to how all the parts made a whole; while the bloated bottom of my adult diaper was being coated in chocolate cake on the outside, the rump within was submerging into a beautifully heated bog of fresh muck, the smell of which delighted my nostrils and soothed my mind. Up and down I would bounce, squishing everything that was inside and out, while the popping of more droppings would punctuate the silly sounds of my own gleeful degradation. Even with the chocolate cake being stuck to the backside of the poopy diaper, that didn't stop me from continuing to eat handfuls of it, while some other handfuls, would instead get clumsily stuffed down both the front and back of the smelly garment. Perhaps this sideshow had hit an apex that tickled pink even the most stone-faced of my former equals, because I would begin to hear chuckles and humored comments from the previously horrified part of my peanut gallery. "...So weird to see him let go like that. Don't think I've ever heard him laugh, or hell, even really smile." "Yeah, Oscar was always such a stick in the mud." "Stick in the mud? More like he had a stick up his ass; dude was the most humorless prick I ever worked under. Didn't do jokes, didn't like fun in the office, always cup half-empty..." "Yup...Man, he'd hate to see himself now. Would probably say something about the cost of wasting cake, or the hygiene of eating it off the ground..." It was at that point, while I giddily stuffed more cake down the back of my loaded diaper, and then proceeded to drop more dirty bombs, that I had an epiphany about myself and the way I was perceived by others. I had been so taken aback by the humiliating existence I had been forced to take on, that I'd immediately thought the 'normal' one I saw was actually indicative of reality. Truth be told, none of the four depictions of reality were accurate to who I was until this morning. The me I thought was normal, and his younger self, were just as fabricated as the life I'd been forced into and my mushbrained younger self. Smiling, laughing, cracking jokes, having a good time, enjoying life... None of that was real. These comments I now had to hear, those spoke to truth about my nature; I was a dour, calculating bureaucrat who spoke in cynical, unfeeling terms. I wasn't the man chucking while exchanging anecdotes, nor had I ever been the boy that smiled broadly as he played with his friends all across the backyard. It was all fake, all four squares. Wherever my original life had gone, it wasn't made available for my viewing pleasure. Had that been the point all along? To show me how very different I could be by loosening up and finding the means to smile? Or, maybe it was more punitive, to discipline my lack of joy by forcing me into a jovial state where my ego had to die? All while made to watch how different things could be? As I settled flatly onto my bottom, my diaper now fully packed with both cake and muck, and my body crashing out from the sugar, I saw the end results of the other three sectors: young and dumb me was a mirror image to my current predicament, young and smart me was playing tag with the friends I'd never actually made, and the 'better' me was proposing a final toast to a fantastic birthday, where all of his guests seemed genuinely pleased to be there. I suppose it didn't matter what the reason for all of this was, or if there was meant to be a point to it. The only takeaway I could ultimately gleam was this: After a lifetime of sour frowns, jaded comments, and general unpleasantness, I had now been forced to become the mirthful epicenter of the party's amusement. Stick in the mud? Well, now my ‘stick’ would very perpetually be in ‘mud’, but that would actually make me quite lively; After being a party-pooper all my life, the universe had made it so I'd be forced to very literally be one. No more would I poop on the party, now I would poop during it, and probably every day after too. My awareness began to fade, as did the visions of other realities, and all I could then focus on, was the joyous feeling of being empty in the head and full in the seat.