When my professor of Creative Writing asked me to describe a bathroom, I wrote this:

Two muscular, blonde guys in their twenties pulled me out of the truck. They tried to carry me as cautiously as they could; yet, I came an inch from the floor. I didn’t break into pieces ‘cause my owner came running on time. He saved me and helped the construction workers put me where I belonged, the bathroom. And so began my life as a mirror, out of Sears and into my new house, Carol’s first apartment.
Carol is twenty-eight years old. He is worried about getting bold; I see him checking himself out too often on my surface. Maybe he is not so worried and just plain conceited. By the long, wide openings of hairs I see above his forehead, I would be worried if I were him. The truth is: he and I spend less time together than I spend with the toilet paper, the towels, and the rest of the bathroom. I only see him for fifteen minutes, the time it takes him to shave, brush, flush and comb twice a day.
The rest of the day, I’m surrounded by white walls, an even whiter ceiling and very shiny, white marbled floor. All the objects and surfaces around me smell like Windex and Mistolin. I smell of Windex myself, if I must say that for the record. A lady with her hair tight in a black, thick ponytail cleans me every two weeks. The scenery around me begins to change, we all start getting dirty again. Little hairs accumulate in the bathtub and thin layers of dust hoard in the corners, around the toilet and behind the door.
Today is one of those days. Bottles of Calvin Klein, Armani, Curve and Dolce and Gabbana are unevenly lined up on the silver shelf above the toilet. The bottle of Zegna is half opened, as if someone had used it, but had left in a hurry. A box of cutips stands next to the cologne bottles and then, there is a yellow candle, inside its container of course. By the candle lays two boxes of matches, one read Macarena and the other Chispas. Then, in the floor, to the right hand side of the toilet stands a container of magazines.

Degas' The Tub
Jessica Alba can be seen in the cover of Maxim, wearing light blue panties, exhibiting her belly button and barely covering her upper body with a white shirt. Jessica Alba’s picture in the cover of Maxim is not as dominant as the painting of a woman taking a shower that hangs on the wall right across from the toilet. It’s probably one of Degas. The pervert painter who paid prostitutes so he could see them taking a shower after a tiring days at work. If one is sitting on the toilet and doesn’t want to go through the pages of Men’s Health and Maxim, there is Degas’ painting, right in front of your face. Someone wasn’t looking at the painting, but at the magazines ‘cause there is a page folded as if someone had interrupted his reading. The article in Men’s Health has a big headline that reads: “More Sex, Fewer Strings”.
Further to the right, in the bathtub, bottles of Herbal Essences’ shampoo and conditioner are unevenly lined up. Of course there is also an Axe bottle. Since Axe came out with the commercial in which Nick Lachey is walking around the city and counting with a clicker how many girls hit on him because he smells like Axe, the company has probably double their sales. Talk about the power of advertisement. The bathroom’s owner was no exception; he went ahead and bought the gel.
I am just what I am, a bathroom mirror in a single guy’s apartment.