MBTI: What Flavor of Soap are You?
INFP: Special order soap. It tastes like bug spray and menthol. This soap was made for certain purposes; being eaten was not one of them. You congratulate yourself on being such a rebel as you begin to see the lights. 8/10
ENFP: Children’s soap. It smells and tastes exotic, but you’re not completely sure what it’s supposed to be. The happy koala on the bottle isn’t much of a clue. It’s a bit astringent. It burns as you swallow. You’re glad your tongue is clean, though. You hiccup, and a bubble leaves your mouth. 5/10
INFJ: Dishwasher soap. Stronger than its cousin, dish soap, but significantly more likely to kill you. It leaves a soft white powder residue on the burns it creates on your tongue. This is somehow your aesthetic. It tastes like a chemical burn and a Tumblr moodboard. You’re pleased. 10/10
ENFJ: Dish soap. It smells like what someone who has never seen a real, whole coconut before would imagine that coconut to smell like. It’s a bit slimy. No matter how much you heave, you can’t seem to get the residue off of your tongue. It begins to sting. 4/10
ISFP: Hotel soap. Completely horrible. No matter what you do, you can’t get the taste out of your mouth afterwards. You look at the crumpled wrapper on your borrowed bathroom counter. You can’t decide if it’s brown or gray. It was complimentary, so you really have nothing to complain about, you remind yourself. There are bubbles in the cracks between your teeth. You hope this will trick your dentist into thinking you actually flossed tomorrow. It does. You feel triumphant as he scrapes the oily residue off of your incisors, perplexed. You’ll never tell. 9/10
ESFP: Handmade soap. You smushed some stuff around in a bucket, and this is the resultant creation. It tastes like oil-flavored toothpaste. The ingredients you bought off of eBay probably weren’t poisonous. You’re not sure how to get the stuff out of this bucket and into a usable container. It will have to do – you decide this is probably more rustic anyway. As one hand shoves another chunk into your mouth, the other increases the price of your soap tenfold on your Etsy store. You smile in the dark, the light from your computer giving your soapy teeth a pallid glow. Multicolored spots begin to dance in your eyes. You take another bite. 7/10
ISFJ: Microbead soap. Tastes like a ruined environment and clogged waterways. You’re not sure if fish are capable of feeling sad. The beads scrape and scratch at your gums as you swish before you swallow. You feel them peel away every unnecessary dead cell in your mouth. You look into the empty bottle, wishing there was more. You open another. Your head begins to vibrate as your stomach begins to twist. You comfort yourself with the knowledge that your blood will finally be clean. 6/10
ESFJ: Bar soap. The original. The classic. It tastes like your childhood – at least the parts when your mother caught you when you swore. Nutty aftertaste with mild notes at the beginning, but now that you’ve finished chewing, it just tastes like soap. You remember why you hated it. You spit it out. You wonder if you’ll go blind. 5/10
ISTP: Hand soap. Perfumey and bland. It eases down your throat as you slurp from the opened bottle. You wonder if it has been watered down. You wonder whose soap this is. You wonder how you ended up in this bathroom, in this house. Your stomach begins to quelch as you stagger outside. You lurch towards the next house, wondering if the soap in another bathroom will taste any different - if it will have answers. It won’t. 3/10
ESTP: Shampoo. Creamy and metallic. It goes down smoothly as you chug from the aesthetically-molded plastic bottle. You hurry. When it’s empty, you quietly slip from this shower, from this house. You move through the night towards the house next door. Maybe their selection will finally satiate you. You will never be full. 9/10
ISTJ: Expensive department store soap. Salty and vaguely acrid. It tastes like licking a grandma. There’s a hint of alcohol – probably the perfumes. You look around your dimly-lit bathroom as you sit on the edge of your tub and feel dead inside. You look at the delicate lettering on the elegant packaging and feel alive. You take another bite. It flakes into beige icing between your teeth. 6/10
ESTJ: Laundry soap. It smells absolutely fantastic, but is so concentrated that you end up in the emergency room. It tastes like deception and suds. Tiny bubbles line your lips. You realize you forgot to start the dryer before the ambulance came. You can no longer tell if it’s the soap or you that’s foaming. It’s soft. You wonder if you’re finally clean as you begin to fade. 2/10
INTJ: Novelty soap. The fragrance of this bar is particularly powerful. The smell is so strong that your brain is tricked into thinking it’s the flavor as well; this prevents you from noticing your discomfort as it slowly erodes away at your lips. You stare at the box, trying to decide if Blue Strawberry Bonanza is a typo. You’re not sure. The prize inside lends extra crunch, but you’re spitting bubbles for an hour afterwards. This is the worst $27 you have ever spent. 7/10
ENTJ: Straight lye. It hurts. At a pH of 13, it’s obviously very efficient – but it will wash you away as well as the grime. It burns. At least you didn’t waste your money on one of those useless scented soaps. Now it hurts AND burns. You reassure yourself with your pragmatism as you begin to die. It tastes like blood. 0/10
INTP: Holiday soap. Special, fragrant, and full of glitter. It tastes horrible when consumed, yet this is your fifth sip. You take your sixth. You look at the leering gingerbread man on the peeling sticker and don’t understand why he can’t taste the way he looks just this once. You decide to give him another chance. It doesn’t work. He tastes the same. 2/10
ENTP: Car wash soap. You’ve never felt so alive, so powerful. The industrial foam fills your mouth, your throat, your lungs. It tastes like wax and fire. This is what it means to be an extrovert. The suds drip from your eyelashes just long enough for you to see the brushes heading towards you. They’re coming. You’re not afraid. They said that you shouldn’t, that you couldn’t. You raise your fists above your head and push out a gurgled scream. You’ll show them. 1/10
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