The Most Magical Place On Earth

“You know…she’s gonna be really mad when she wakes up like that.”

You hear Sabrina’s voice say that through the haze of sleep. You’re not awake yet. Not fully. Last night’s impromptu party is still pounding in the base of your skull. You feel a bit of drool slip out the corner of your mouth and dribble onto your chin, but your senses and your waking mind aren’t fully in sync just yet. Same goes for the way your glasses are slightly askew on your face, or how you’re technically sitting even if you are slumped over.

It was a heck of a party. Your friends, Sabrina and Tricia, all visited you after work last night with a bottle of cheap rum and tiny plastic shot glasses. It was a long day behind you and you had a long day ahead of you. So yeah, why not have a few drinks with friends?

Sailor Jerry was a cheap, foul tasting rum -like gasoline with a light cherry aftertaste- that could knock you on your ass after only a few shots. It practically tasted like college. The light notes of nostalgia and high proof alcohol content masked a lot, and not just taste. It masked the fact that your friends weren’t quite matching you shot for shot. By the time you realized that they were secretly shooting brown cola instead of rum more than half the time, you were too drunk to care.

When you got wobbly enough that you knew you were either going to spend the rest of the night in bed, Tricia was kind enough to walk you to your room and lie you down. From there, everything got a little…blurry.

You stir, leaning forward a bit, but not too much. Something is holding you in place; kind of like a seatbelt but with even less give. “I think she’s starting to come to.” Sabrina again.

“Okay baby girl.” It’s Tricia this time. “Thank you.”

‘Baby girl’ is Tricia’s nickname for Sabrina. They’re a couple, which is fine. Their relationship dynamic, however, is.anything but traditional. It’s one thing for lovers to call each other ‘babe’ or ‘baby’ or even ‘baby girl’. Thing is, Sabrina likes to call Tricia ‘Mommy’. That is kind of weird. Weird and curios, not that you’d ever admitted to such curiosity.

Like a computer booting up the rest of your senses start to sync up with conscious thought as your brain shuffles through the wild ride of last night. Even if it was just sitting up, drinking, and talking with two very good friends, you’d really needed it.

“Good morning!” Sabrina practically sings out just as your eyes are just starting to flutter open.

Tricia’s voice takes on a note of warning. “Brini…” You stretch and adjust your glasses. You run a hand through your short light brown hair and scratch your head.

“Sorry, Mommy,” Sabrina says. Sabrina’s a blonde and likes to play up the stereotype. That’s what you credit her tendency to play cute and dumb to: blondness

You yawn. Thoughtlessly, you let out a tiny belch. Then your brain comes all the way online and you see. You really see.

“What…the…?” You freeze mid-sentence, unsure of what curse word best describes exactly how you’re feeling just then.

You’re not in your bed. Instead you’re sitting upright in the back seat of Tricia and Sabrina’s car. More than the backseat, you’re sitting strapped into an overlarge booster seat, much like the kind a toddler or preschooler might sit in. When you asked about it months ago, Tricia said that it was for her niece. You’re getting the feeling that that might have been a lie, because you fit in it rather well.

Your hazel eyes follow the shoulder straps. They click together over your chest and then click into another buckle right between your legs. Just like a toddler. That’s why you didn’t slump over in your sleep.

The next thing your brain registers is the matter of your clothes. You’re wearing your glasses, your socks, and your comfortable sneakers: As far as clothing that you remember owning, that’s it. You’re not naked, however. It’s just that you’re positive that you didn’t buy the remaining articles.

Over your chest and down to just barely past your waistline, is a red dress with white polka dots and Peter Pan collar along the neckline. The shoulders are lightly padded to give it a slight poofy effect, and the sleeves don’t even make it halfway to your elbow before they stop and end with some lacy frilling at the ends.

Living in Orlando, you’re used to images of certain Disney Icons on the regular. You can’t go a full day here without seeing someone in a Goofy or Donald (or Star Wars or X-Men or Simpsons now, technically…) t-shirt. Just in case you weren’t completely certain what you were wearing, you’re able to make out the three black circles and polka dot bow that are just barely covered by your chest buckle. You’re dressed like Minnie Mouse.

But not quite.

Your shoulders aren’t the only thing with poofy padding on them. The dress isn’t really a dress, but more of a stylized T-shirt. Sabrina’s shorter than you. On her tiny and petite frame, it might service as a dress as long as she was comfortable flashing her panties every time she bent her knees, picked something off the ground, or so much as shrugged her shoulders.

You? You’re lean, but also tall (you never liked the word lanky). On you it’s pretty much a t-shirt.

Beneath your shirt is a lump of lavender with white dots. It covers kind of like a bikini bottom but just from the way it bulges and presses against the buckle between your crotch you know there’s a lot more material than something you’d wear to the beach.

You shift and sit up in alarm and the lightest crinkle barely hits your ear like crunching on a potato chip. Your shoulders aren’t the only thing with poof and padding. As if afraid they might catch fire your fingers venture south just past the hem of the ‘dress’ and graze on soft plastic. The gliding caress is only interrupted by thin…rectangular…tapes?

“Am I…” your mouth goes dry. “Am I wearing a diaper?”

“Yup yup!” Sabrina chirps. “Us little babies gotta stay padded up, or we’ll have an accident!”

“Brini,” Tricia says from the driver’s seat. “That’s enough.”

Sabrina faces forward. You can see her long gorgeous hair is done up in twin pigtails bobbing out to either side. “Sorry, Mommy.”

“Apologize to your friend.”

“Sorry…” Sabrina says, dropping her head. She seems like a scolded two year old, reciting the words of an apology but not quite meaning it.

Reflecting in the rear view mirror, Tricia’s eyes meet yours. They’re the same hazel color as yours. Same hair color, too, though she wears hers much longer. She’s the same height as you, but heavier (though she carries it well), and her face is more rounded. Her breasts are significantly larger too, attractively so, though you’d never bring it up.

She’s about five years older, and is in many ways the big sister you’ve never had, with Sabrina being like your playfully bratty little sister. Though under current circumstances, Tricia might suited to play the role of your mother. Mommy…

“Sorry about the rude awakening,” Tricia says. “Brini is practically drowning in her own headspace at the moment.”

“Why am I in a diaper?” The question is easier to ask and not sound furious than you thought it would be. Maybe because you’re still so flabbergasted. Heck, you might even still be a little drunk from last night. The sun is either waaaay too bright or you’ve got the beginnings of a hangover.

Tricia’s answer is almost immediate. “Because I put you in one last night. Didn’t want you ruining your mattress. You were pretty drunk.”

“Good thing, too. You were soaked this morning when Mommy changed you.”


“Sorry, Mommy.”

A bit of color and an accompanying hot flush rises to your cheeks. “You…changed me…?” You nervously shuffle your feet on the cars carpet and your hands shoot up and grip the car seat’s shoulder straps as if they need something to hold onto lest they touch the diaper again. “Changed…my dia…?” You can’t even say the word anymore. That would make it too too real.



“Believe me, kiddo,” Tricia says. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“Mommy…” Now it was Sabrina sounding cross. “I thought you said…”

Tricia rolls her eyes and huffs. “Fair enough, baby girl.” She looks back at you in the mirror. “The diaper and dress was not initially part of the plan. Stealing you away to Disney World was.”

“WHAT?!” Disney? In this short of a dress? And diapered? You’re on the verge of hyperventilating! “W-w-why?” There’s a growing discomfort inside you too, and it has nothing to do with your ability to breathe…

Tricia throws a glance to Sabrina. “Brini? Hun? Can you be big enough to explain to your little friend?” The way she talks to Sabrina and about you, as if you’re both children, just a few years younger than her. It stirs up long buried emotions; feelings you didn’t know you had. In a word, it makes you feel…smol.

Sabrina sighs and turns around to face you. You can see she’s wearing pink pin striped overalls, and the ribbons that keep her hair up in pigtails match.

She closes her eyes for a moment, like an actor getting into character for a monologue. When they open again, they seem clearer, more focused. “We know how hard you’ve had it at work lately,” she says. Her tone is less bouncy; less childish. “So Mommy…Tricia and me,” she corrects herself, “decided to take you to Disney World for the day.”

“But I’ve got work today…” you say dumbly.

“That’s why we got you drunk!” Her grin is mischievous and straight out of a comic book. Some red and blue highlights and a bit of white powder and she’d be a regular Harley Quinn. “Don’t worry, you called out sick.” Something changes in her eyes, just then, and you can’t say whether or not they cloud over like a dementia patient’s or brighten and sharpen like a speed freak’s.

“But why am I dressed like…like…” you stutter. “Like a friggin’ baby?” Your voice is sounding whinier by the syllable. “Why am I in this chair? Why am I in this dress? Why am I wearing a diaper?”

Sabrina admits, “We put you in my special car chair because we thought you were still pretty drunk this morning.” She got that part right. You’re still not completely convinced that this isn’t some kind of booze fueled fever dream.

“And what about the rest? I haven’t worn this stuff since Pre-K. Why am I dressed like this?”

Sabrina pouts out her lip. She opens her mouth and closes it. Then she does it again. And again. She looks vaguely like a fish with her lips flapping but no sound coming out. A simple question has stopped her in her tracks. Right here and how, asking her ‘Why am I wearing a diaper’ was like one toddler asking another the very same question. Sabrina hasn’t vocalized it yet, but you can tell she’s struggling not to answer along the lines of ‘Why wouldn’t you be?’

Instead, she turns her attention to Tricia. “Mommy? Help?”

One of Tricia’s eyebrows cocks. “You really don’t remember? Do you?”

You shake your head, and shift a bit in the big baby seat.

“Sugar,” Tricia tells you. “You got drunk last night. Real drunk.” You already knew that. “Drunk enough that you actually asked why I call Brini my baby girl.”

A jolt up your spine. “And what did you say?”

Tricia changes lanes. You’ve been on the road, and the highway has transformed into the long series of twists and turns and lane changes going into Disney World and it’s various other parks. That doesn’t matter so much to you right now. Tricia’s answer does.

“Because it’s part of our dynamic,” she says. “I’m a Mommy. Brini’s my Little.”

Over the next several minutes, you’re given a wikipedia sized entry on things like age play and Caregiver Little dynamics that positively fry your brain. You’re more than hungover. Your mind is completely blown.

You’re so utterly bamboozled and discombobulated that it doesn’t even register that you’re past the parking entrance and that the guy working the parking booth likely saw more than a hint of your padding.

“So long story short. We’ve known you for a while and we wanted to share this side of ourselves with you.”

Brini adds. “So we did. Last night.” She waits for Tricia to unbuckle her seatbelt for her and then got out of the passenger seat.

Tricia walks around to the side door and opened it. “And you said you were curious, so we helped you try it out.” Oddly enough you don’t flinch as Tricia reaches in and starts to unbuckle you from the baby seat.

Call this kidnapping? Call this a prank? Call this the weirdest initiation into a secret, ever. You still can’t help but implicitly trust them.

You don’t remember any of this. You must have been more shitfaced than you were the night of graduation. “I said that?”

“It sure kept your bed dry.”

You shrink down, wishing there was a way you could burrow into the seat cushions and just hide. How embarrassing! How humiliating! You haven’t wet the bed since you could remember. To hear Tricia and Sabrina tell it, you peed yourself and needed a fresh change just this morning.

“We get to spend aaaallll day at Disney,” Brini chimes in, breaking you out of your own head. “the most magical place on earth and me and our best friend gets to be as little as me for the day! Two birds. One stone!” Brini’s on the other side of the car. They’ve got you cornered now.

“And people are…into this stuff?” You bite your bottom lip nervously. “Including the…” you point between your legs rather than dare say the ‘d-word’ another time.

Brini points to her own waist. “Don’t worry!” she says. “You’re not the only one wearing!” Now that you can see her in full, you realize that Sabrina’s pink striped overalls stop just above her knee, making her look even more like a two year old.

She pats her crotch and an almost hollow thud resounds in your ears. You squint and notice that if you stare closely enough, you can see the faint outline, the bulge of a diaper underneath her shortalls comes into view.

“That reminds me,” Tricia speaks over you across the backseat. “Brini, do you need a change?’

Sabrina looks off to the side. Even when you think of her as an adult- something that is becoming harder to do by the minute- you know that’s one of her tells. “No ma’am.”

Tricia doesn’t seem convinced. “Mmmhmm…we’ll see about that in a few minutes.” She returns her gaze to you and reaches her hand out. “You comin’?”

You don’t take it. You look to your right and stare at Sabrina. “Why does Brini get pants?”

Tricia chuckles. “You were still stone cold drunk this morning, sweetie. The diaper change was the easy part. I’m impressed that I got that dress over your head.” You still don’t move. You don’t have any better words, but you plead to your friend with puppy dog eyes.

“Mommy…” Sabrina whines. “I wanna go to Disneeeey!” She’s dancing side to side like an anxious tot. You know that she’s not doing the potty dance. “I wanna go to Disneeeey!”

Tricia smiles ruefully and reaches into a bag you hadn’t seen before. It’s a huge satchel bag; the kind that old women and tourists tend to cart around and slip their buffet leftovers into for later. She takes out a pair of ruffled white shorts. Of course. What’s Minnie Mouse without her signature bloomers.

“I brought these.” She holds them out as a peace offering. “You can put them on yourself or I can help.”

You take the help. You slide out of the car and feel the thing wrapped around your bum droop as soon as you’re standing. This thing and gravity aren’t friends. “What the?”

“Diapers sag.” Tricia says matter of factly. She pops open the not-quite pants for you to step in.

No one’s passing by you just yet, but your diaper has been out in the open for approximately one point two seconds, or in more precise units of measurement, an eternity. If someone sees you like this. You’ll die. Just die. You waste no time digging your sneaker in past the leg holes. “I thought you said you changed me!”

“I did.” Tricia replies, shimmying the bloomers up over your hips. “You’re just wet again. Babies do that.”


“Big babies.” Bri explains. She’s waddle toddled over to your side of the car. “Less of an age, and more of a mind bet.

“That’s ‘mind set’, hun.” Tricia corrects.

“Yes, Mommy.”

Still bending over, Tricia pivots and unsnaps a few buttons on Brini’s shortalls. You stop breathing and her head jerks back in surprise. For a millisecond your brain flashes a blue screen of death.

Her shorts. Have snaps. In the crotch. A diaper isn’t the only embarrassing baby thing she’s wearing.

You watch as Tricia slips two fingers into Brini’s diaper (yup, that’s a diaper alright) and feels around. “You’re wet,” she says to her girlfriend, “but I think you can go a little longer without a change.”

“Yes, Mommy.”
Tricia buttons the legs back up and pivots back to you. “You’re wet too,” she says. “But I think you’ll hold a few more accidents” She says it with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about. “But you’re new to this. Do you want me to change you here before we go in?”

“NO!” You recoil and step back. “I mean…yes? I mean no…? I mean, I don’t know!” That’s when the fact that you’re effectively wearing a damp sponge soaked with your own pee-pee finally sinks in. You weren’t grossed out at all till just now, when you started thinking about it.

“Okay okay!” Tricia chuckles. “How about we just get inside the park?” Then under her breath. She mutters, “Babies…”

Brini, who is also wearing a wet diaper, happily so, offers her hand out to you. “Walk with us?”

You lean back on your heels. Your throat goes dry and your stomach churns and at least half of it has nothing to do with the massive quantities of rum having their revenge on you. You stare at the bloomer shorts you’ve got on over the diaper.

Just like with Sabrina, if you stare hard enough, you just make out the lump of the diaper beneath. Only yours looks bigger. Much bigger. The tiny rational part of your brain whispers that that’s not true: Sabrina and you are about the same size waist wise, and Tricia wouldn’t have diapers that fit one but not both of you. It only feels like the diaper is less concealed because you know exactly where to look and what each little convex shape really means. Your diaper only feels more obvious because it’s your diaper.

Meanwhile every other region of your gray matter knows it to be absolutely true. This is a trap meant to humiliate and degrade you and the indisputable fact that every slight rustle you make is a friggin’ gong that everyone can hear from miles away is a testament to that fact.

“But…but…” you whimper. “I can still tell I’m wearing…and I can hear.” You feel as if you’re close to tears. “Everyone will know.”

Tricia smirks and starts to slowly shake her head, but it’s Sabrina who speaks up first. “I can help with this,” she says.

“You can?”

“Yup yup.” She steps out into the large Magic Kingdom parking lot. People are leaving their cars and walking toward the main gate, ready for a fun day of enchantment and childhood nostalgia. Brini cups her hands to her mouth and shouts at the top of her lungs. “ATTENTION EVERYONE! THIS GIRL AND ME? WE’RE WEARING DIAPERS! DIAPERS! BOTH OF US! WE’RE BOTH WEARING BIG POOFY DIAPERS! LIKE BABIES! ONLY WE’RE ADULTS! WE’RE ADULTS WEARING DIAPERS! DIAPERS, DIAPERS, DIAPERS!”

Not a single park goer- no tourist, nor snowbird, nor local, nor blue hair senior with a year long pass- so much as moves their head in recognition…

You stand there with your mouth open, as Brini walks back over to you and takes your hand. “See?” she says. “Nobody cares.”

Hand in hand, the three of you start to walk to the ticket ticket booth, blending in with all the other random people, slipping into line. “Seriously,” Tricia gently lectures you. “How long have you lived in Orlando? This place is like PG-Las Vegas. As long as we don’t go running around naked or do something insanely stupid, nobody cares what we do.”

You feel funny being so readily included in that group statement. You’re not sure if it’s funny good, or funny bad, but for today it’ll do. “Tricia?” you say once you’ve found your voice.


“If we’re doing this,” you stage whisper, “and I’m not saying we’re doing this, but…”

“But what?”

“What should I call you?” You ask. Your friend seems a bit confused. “Like…Sabrina is Brini…” That part seems natural to you. Hell, your buddy seems like a Brini the way she’s acting and dressed. It’s like all the years you’ve known Sabrina, you’re only now starting to see the real Brini.

“That’s right…” Tricia says. The line is moving forward. “And?” She’s either not getting it, or she’s purposefully trying to drag it out of you. It’s probably the latter. Tricia always knows what’s going on. She can always read a room or know what a person is thinking by the silence that they say.

You try to voice your thoughts properly. “And she calls you ‘Mommy’,” you say. “But…” But ‘Mommy’ seems so privileged. So intimate. So special. Possibly romantic? Maybe even slightly sexual? At least in the way two lovers might have special nicknames for each other. You don’t know if you’ve earned that with Tricia. You’re not even sure that you feel that way about Tricia or Brini.

Good friends? Yeah. Family by bond if not blood? Positively. Someone you love enough to try this crazy fetish out with at a moment’s notice and in public? Apparently, yes. But anything more? That’s not something to be decided on a whim at a theme park. Nope. Heck. They might not even feel that way about you.

Tricia finally decides to let you off the hook and do a little speaking of her own. “How about Aunty Trish?” she suggests.

You feel a bit of light return to your soul. “Aunty Trish?” you try the moniker out and it feels right on your tongue and your brain. Familiar, but not too familiar, and with a certain amount of warmth that ‘Miss’ or ‘Missus’ lacks. And what is an Aunty but a fun Mommy you get to play with and then go back to your own house at the end of the day? The whole thought makes you feel…smol. “Yeah. I like that.”

Brini playfully elbows you. “Yeah. Me too!”

You make your way past the entrance and you give yourself a small heart attack as the guard inspects Aunty Trish’s bag. It’s not a purse you realize too late. It’s a diaper bag. Well stocked, too. And the diapers are way too big for anyone but you and Brini.

But the guard peaks in, barely touches the wipes, powder, and five to six diapers that you and Brini have to split between you, and gives the bag back to the oldest of you. They were right, you realize. No one cares. Everybody else is here for something besides you getting in touch with your inner Rugrat.

The strangers behind and in front of you want to get out of this line so they can jump into another, and the guards aren’t paid enough to care about what goes on in your pants (so long as it stays there). People who actually need adult diapers come to Disney too, you tell yourself. Why would anyone assume you’re not one of them and harass you about it?

A rumbling and a sensation down below alerts you to an unfortunate reality of living in your body. You don’t get hungover, usually. Sometimes, if you’re really bad and don’t pace yourself, you’ll throw up, but that’ll be the worst of it. Other than that, you’re likely to have a low-grade headache that’ll follow you through the day from dehydration and light sensitivity from lack of REM sleep. General fatigue all around. But nothing like in the movies where you need hot sauce, bacon dripping, and hair of the dog that bit ya.

Except for the poop. Booze always does a number on your bowels the day after. It’s never diarrhea, but the stool is usually kind of loose and comes out way too quick to be comfortable. Okay. So you wet yourself in your sleep (at least twice). It doesn’t mean you’re that committed to trying this age play thing out. “Aunty Trish?” you start to whine.

“Yes, dear?” she says, still walking with you and Brini. “What’s wrong?” then she adds “I told you it wouldn’t be so bad, see?”

“I gotta…um…” should you use ‘potty’ or big girl words? What was the protocol here?

You don’t have time to find out. A lady with a camera and a park uniform. “Souvenir photo?” she asks.

Aunty Trish pulls you and Brini in close, one under each arm. “Sure.”

Your knees knock together and your cheeks start to involuntarily spread. “Say ‘cheese’!”

“CHEEEEESE!” You grin. Big and toothy. You say cheese as loud and long as you can. It feels like that’s all you can do to cover up what’s going on beneath your bloomers.

It’s too late. You’re soiling yourself. In public. Your cheeks spread out and your knees bend slightly. Your body keeps pushing. The first mushy log hits the back of your diaper. There’s more, so the mush gets pushed aside and flattened and drops down to make room for the next push. If anyone was staring at your butt, you know, they’d see the back seat start to fill. They’d know. They’d all know.

Just like a little tot that’s too young and immature to make it to the potty, you’re filling up your pants like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In public. And for all intents and purposes you’re smiling.

The photographer hands Aunty Trish a receipt so that she can pick up and pay for the photo later. “WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?!” you yelp, shaking like a chihuahua. You’re louder than you meant to. Now that you’ve had the full diaper experience, your own personal volume is back in force. Maybe on some level you think that if you’re loud enough, people somehow won’t be able to smell what’s coming from your bloomers.

“The potty?” Brini starts. “Babies don’t need to use the…” she stops when she sees the absolute mortification on your face. “Where’s the restroom, ma’am?” she repeats.

The lady gives the two fingers Disney point, and goes off to find the next group of tourists to bilk.

“Aunty Trish,” you hear yourself say. “I hadda accident. Can you please change my diaper?” The tears are coming for real now. No more threats from your eyeballs anymore. They’re just pouring out down your face.

Tricia sees it too. “Sure honey. Follow me.”

Disney World is top of the line. It’s not hard to find the restrooms. They’ve got both the busy in and out of public stalls and urinals as well as more quiet out of the way places where people with needs similar to yours can quietly be aided without overmuch embarrassment.

That doesn’t make the hundred feet there any less traumatic for you. You used to think having to slip on last night’s wrinkled outfit to sneak out of a stranger’s apartment and get back home was the Walk of Shame. That had nothing on marching bow legged through the Magic Kingdom with several mushy lumps of poop in your pants. Each step you take you feel a slight jiggle or bump as the semi-solid mass jostles a little more; pulled by gravity but trapped between your butt and the diaper. How do kids live with this feeling?

You woke up in an adult car seat. You pooped in an adult diaper. It’s only fitting that you get changed on an adult changing table. This model is thicker and wider than the ones you’re used to seeing in most every ladies’ room. Lower to the ground, too so you can hop on by yourself. There’s no pictures of Baby Mickey or anything on it, so you’ve got that going for you.

Tricia locks the door and Sabrina waits outside.

Your friend, just a few years older than you, doesn’t coo at you or tease you. She can see you’re past the point where anything like that would even resemble fun. She just washes her hands in the sink and changes your diaper.

No comments about your mess. No calling you a baby. She’s all business, occasionally telling you to lift your legs or hips up so she can wipe a spot or slip the old diaper out from underneath you. Still, her voice is warm and reassuring. If she’s half as grossed out by this as you are, she doesn’t show it. Near the end of it she even throws in a “Good girl” or two, and that genuinely makes you feel better.

“Thank you, Aunty Trish.” You manage.

“You’re welcome, baby.” She replies. She starts washing her hands again. “Will you send Brini in?”

You trade places with your other friend, and start counting the seconds as your heartbeat begins to slow to non-Olympic sprinter levels. You count the seconds and they start to drag out. Was your own diaper change this long, or is the Mommy dragging her baby girl’s change out?

Absentmindedly, you look down at your bloomers. The new diaper is clean and dry and no one would think that the baby powder smell was coming from your butt. Baby powder was a precious commodity in this hot Florida weather. Still, you know that if some stranger looked hard enough, they’d see the outline of crinkling plastic panties that weren’t really.

You know this, and get a kind of thrill from it. They won’t know. Even if someone suspected it was none of their business what was going on in your…crap! You only just now realize that technically you could have refused the new diaper and just worn these bloomers commando. They’re still solid enough and thick enough that no one would be able to tell.

What does that say about you?

You’re rejoined by your friends. “Now that that’s all taken care of,” Aunty Trish says. “What ride do you two munchkins wanna go on first?”

Brini is hopping now. It’s definitely not the potty dance. “It’s a smol world!” Even though the inflection is nearly identical, you can hear the childish mispronunciation in Brini’s voice.

“Yeah,” you agree. “It’s a smol world, after all!”

(The End)


What a cute story.

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You know, I almost removed this story for throwing shade at Sailor Jerry.


When bottom shelf liquor isn’t bad enough, try looking under the shelf. Yeah, that stuff ain’t great.
Gotta say I do miss when hangovers didn’t pour sand down my throat, kick me in the gut with work boots, and club me over the head with an aluminum bat. Oh well.

For the story itself, the responses above pretty much have it covered. It’s refreshingly light for something that escalates so quickly. I could try and break down bits here and there, but that’d go against how well it flowed in the first place. It’s pretty rapid-fire, but it does work well.

And the perspective. Second person is hard to do well, but you’ve certainly managed.

Keep it up.

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I mean, I spoke of Sailor Jerry from experience, lol. So…a place of nostalgia? Much like Disney? Aha! ART!

That’s actually where the story most loses me; I’ve never been to Disney.

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Ah. I’m a native Floridian. I was practically writing about my backyard.

This story was fun and quite cute. I do wish it were a bit longer, but I suppose not every story needs to be a reading exercise.

Just remember: Short of death (and even then…) every story goes on even if our window into it shuts. This window showed the surprise of someone getting a very unusual surprise and learning something about themselves. There very well may be a window showing the rest of that day and that someone either complete embracing this new side of themselves or emotionally wobbling and needing support but that’d be a different window in the same life we just peeked into.