That's right, I see you, you little last Swiffer Sweeper Wet Mopping Cloth, overflowing with the cleansing juices of your long forgotten brothers and sisters--your entire family GONE but yet... you hang on to their stink, their belongings, their... essence, if you will, with all of your magical clinging powers which not only get up little tiny pebbles, but hairs and dust bunnies also... and you are the one I've really been waiting for.
Twenty-three of your brethren cast aside like so much floor dirt you so readily stuff your gaps with when they come anywhere near, like a microscopic Grand Canyon you are... but in reverse... and upside down... or something--BUT you are still a dirty little bitch when I get done with you.
I know you've been in there all alone for weeks--months now... but it is your time. You're so wet you're dripping out of your sides right when I pick you up, and yet... you say you don't want this? I can't say that I understand. You say no, but Wet Mopping Cloth--or as the French say linges humidifies--I know you want it... in America, wet always means "yes."
I place you gently over my wand, I can't... make it happen (if you know what I mean) unless everything is perfectly symmetrical, it's a problem I have and have recently learned about myself, when I am "in the moment" everything must be at 90-degree angles--and now that I have you draped, dripping onto my hands, perfectly lined up, I finger you into all four holes as fast as I can, so hard that I think you might tear, but as you've shown me, you may look innocent, but you learned much from watching your family grow-up... you stay. You are stronger than I thought you were.
The second you touch my floor (I've been saving months of dirt for you) you show me what you've really learned. Your juices explode onto the fake wood of my 200 square foot apartment and you begin lapping up everything you've released. I laugh, but you are not deterred, you are so wet that you get every drop, every last speck of dirt, pubic hair and dried semen that's been on the ground for however long the Misses has been away and you store it all away in your magical crevasses that I've been waiting to know through 23 of your less experienced and far less thrilling kin.
I've made a new mess for you... do you think you can handle it?