Daniela’s Disgraceful Descent

It's 10:30pm on the 11th floor of a fancy hotel. A strapping young man and a delightful young woman say good night to the young man's father. They call the elevator and the young woman hops spiritedly on board. The doors close. After a few moments of observing themselves in the smudged mirrors, the young woman takes notice of the extraordinary number of buttons by the doors. The buttons call to her, "push us," they say. She longs to see the discs glow orange; flagrant symbols of her childish whimsy. She thinks the young man might enjoy a little flagrant whimsy. In the pit of her stomach she feels the elevator slow. With a sly glance at her companion she lifts her hand to the seductive buttons. "No don't do it," the young man says, fearful of causing inconvenience. But it is too late, the buttons have not stopped their beguiling song, and her hand has slid all the way up the center row of buttons. The young woman smiles triumphantly at her orange row of mayhem, her bright chain of havoc, her glowing column of inconvenience! The doors open and just before she impishly leaps from the elevator, her eye meets the steely eye of a hotel employee. She quickly casts her eyes down as the vested and name-tagged entity steps onto the elevator and calls out, "Did you guys press all the buttons?!" To her horror, her companion laughingly exclaims, "No, it was her!" Just then the young woman realized they were on the wrong floor. She ran to the vest man and pleaded, "The stairs, where are the stairs?" Her cheeks burned and she could not be made to look the man in the eye. "Accursed, buttons! Why did I listen to your siren song?" she thinks. As it turns out, the young man and woman are trapped. There are no stairs and they are forced to get on the evil elevator once more. The man in the vest smirks and explains that there is an antidote to the button's demonic spell: you press all the buttons. The young woman looks at her feet, internally she rails against the buttons--those fiendish, hellish, smoldering eyes. Once again, the young woman feels the elevator slowing, the doors sweep open and she knows she must say something. Out of her painful humiliation, that heavy stone in her stomach, she croaks, "I promise to be more mature next time." She lurches out of the elevator and hears the vest and shiny name-tag man exclaim, "I hope there won't be a next time!"

She was so ashamed, she ran home to post the story on the internet for the world to see.

Well, I never said I was logical.