THE SCENE: a dark and stormy night in mid-October, lightning illuminating the dark and decrepit cellar, wind shrieking through the trees outside.

OK, THE ACTUAL SCENE: a Wednesday afternoon in late March, dim fluorescent lights illuminating toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror, the upstairs neighbors seemingly practicing their tap-dancing routine.

You've been putting this off for weeks. When the sink first began draining slower, you figured it would probably sort itself out in its own time, or maybe your roommate would say something before then. It would probably be fine. Not a big deal. Today, though, you couldn't focus on your mid-afternoon pee-and-scroll-through-Instagram because it was there, the stagnant pool of toothpaste-spit water, glaring at you accusingly through its reflection in the mirror.

Something had to be done.

So here you are, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, ready to offer yourself up to the battle. Your munitions? A plunger, a pair of tweezers, a pencil, and a dream.

The plunger has a smell like new rubber, a smell like your housemates insisted that you would need one, and yet no one has used it at any point and it's just been sitting in the closet stinking up the place with its weird plunger smell. You position it over the sink drain, breaking the foamy surface of the grey water, and pep-talk yourself with a "Well, let's see how this goes," said aloud to an empty room.

You plunge.

The sink fills with black liquid, riddled with tiny black flakes of what can only be described as Ick. You see an eyelash floating around. You see another. And three more. You press your hand to your face to ensure that you do, in fact, still have eyelashes on your eyes because holy shit where did all these eyelashes come from? The Ick is still swirling around in the sink, and after several more failed plungings you finally have the common sense to put the stopper down so you can scoop everything out. You try not to look at the wet black clumps and you try not to guess what they are made of.

Your job is far from over. You think it is, for one brief, shining moment; then you wash your hands to rid them of the Ick, and the stagnant pool returns. Plunger, Act 2.

Finally, the gods descend and take pity on your battle-torn soul, and the drain stopper that has been stuck for weeks is finally loose enough to pull out. Unfortunately, the gods' pity only extends so far and what greets you as you remove the plug causes you to fall into a fit of delirium rivaling that of Catherine Linton, and you have to be removed to a manor in the countryside where you live out your last days cruelly cursing the day you ever laid eyes on the sink drain.

Okay, what actually happens is that you gasp audibly and look into your own reflection like you're looking into the camera on The Office, then proceed to gag slightly, then raise your eyebrows in a grotesque appreciation of just how disgusting it is.

Because what you see, wrapped around and trailing from the drain plug, is a soggy black clump of Ick the size of a small rat, embedded with human hair and unidentifiable goo. And the eyelashes. Oh my god, the eyelashes. You briefly wonder if perhaps the last tenant had a weird eyelash fetish and this actually isn't your mess at all, but you don't have time to kink-shame right now. The Ick is still there.

Using a "Happy Birthday" pencil that you can't remember the sentimental origins of, you scrape the Ick into the trash, priding yourself on only gagging a little. You haven't breathed through your nose once throughout the ordeal. Finally, the drain plug is clean. Only the drain pipe remains.

You bravely thrust your tweezer-clad hand into the drain and begin the process of pinching, pulling, scraping, and dragging the drain creature into the horrifying fluorescent light of day. Its protestations can be read on its hideous hairy face. It seeps black water and probably Pure Evil too, but there is no turning back now. You have the upper hand, the tweezer-fingers hand, the trying-not-to-notice-the-Ick-under-your-fingernails hand. And you will win this battle. You will emerge victorious.

And you do. Some time later, after the final scrapings, after the water drains quickly. After several dousings in sanitizer and only minimal rocking on the shower floor, reliving your trauma. You emerge victorious, drain creature defeated and nothing to show for it but a clean sink that stands out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the hair-coated counter and toothpaste-spattered mirror.

But that's a battle for another day.