Friends... I come to you today humbled. I come to you as a different man. A broken man... But more specifically, a greasier man. It's been 24 hours since I last took a shower, and I fear these may be the last words I write to you as a sane man. Before my fleeting grip on sanity and reality is surrendered, and the assiduous grease takes me, I'd like to tell a tale of the last few stinky hours of my life that have been spent without a shower. I'm not sure of my own intentions with this contrivance. Perhaps so you can diagnose the signs with ameliorate haste, and elude them better than I.
Showering follows a routine all across the planet, unless you're a hippie and rely purely on water fountains or rain to clean yourself. At night you sleep, then when you wake up, you take a shower. So you see, spending a portion of the day without a shower is no stranger to anyone, assuming you don't shower while you sleep. Subsequently, it's fair to assume you wake up mildly greasy, your breath smelling faintly of a decaying corpse. Unless you wake up next to someone else and cannot remember how they got there, or if you wake up in jail spooning with your cellmate Jamal, there's no need to feel bad. Smelling like shit in the morning is just nature playing a prank on you. Thankfully the instrument commonly referred to as a shower exists, so that you may become clean, exude confidence in your fine acknowledgement of proper hygiene, and show your face in public. When the aforementioned pattern is disrupted, things spiral out of control. This has been my life for the past few hours.
I awoke this morning to the euphonious sound of someone doing the dishes. This meant two things. First, I didn't have to clean the kitchen. Second, I wasn't going to be able to take a shower right away. It didn't bother me though. I planned to relax for awhile, have my breakfast, and eventually procure a shower (in the non-prostitute sense, obviously).
I was concentrating very much on writing, so I had neglected my shower temporarily. Thankfully I remembered before it became too late, and schemed to emend my oleaginous self with undue haste. I departed from my lair and proceeded to the bathroom. Before I turned on the shower, I decided it would be wise to investigate the rest of the house, and ascertain whether water was already in use. Turns out it was, infact. The laundry machine was active. I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere, so it wasn't a problem. I'll just play some guitar while I wait. Just to clarify, I mean actual good guitar, not douchebag playing at a campfire guitar.
After a fair amount of time had passed, I felt another attempt was in order. Sadly, my brother was occupying the shower. Fair enough, I suppose, he has to go to work. While telling you that acceptable hygiene standards are fundamental at a grocery store would be difficult (i.e. falsehood), he required the shower more than I, so I was generous in not flushing the toilet, and anxiously, but patiently, awaited my turn.
After more time had passed, I once again attempted to take a shower, but it appeared the dishwasher was on... again... I wasn't abruptly besieged with a crazed sense of bewilderment, but this was starting to become irritating. The task of the dishes had already been completed. I felt we'd exhausted our supply of dishes, but apparently not. Evidently the few remaining cups in my house took priority over my cleanliness. My beloved hot water, employed uselessly without adequate return...
I found myself collapsed on my bed sometime later, having been choked to a state of partial consciousness by a foul miasma. Taking a shower was now imperative. Integral to my survival. I journeyed to the bathroom, was about to open the door, and was rewarded with a fart of extraordinary magnitude from inside the bathroom, occupied by my father. The sheer force of his ass was enough to make the door shake. It became clear to me in that moment as to exactly why he had been eating fiber-enriched cereal in the morning, and had packed himself 4-bean chili for lunch.
I started writing this story after that defeat, made some supper, still staggering with humiliation. But finally, the long anticipated shower had arrived. I stepped into the bathroom, and two things became immediately apparent to me. The bathroom was still beset with a vile, poisonous stench, and the window was open, so the bathroom was freezing cold. When I finally got in the shower, there wasn't very much hot water remaining for me, then someone flushed the toilet 30 seconds in.
So it wasn't a moral victory, but at least I don't smell like whatever would come out of my ass after an extensive cherry-pie-only diet anymore. If nothing else, I've proven that my massive vocabulary can be applied nicely to internet obscurity, but not to my research paper which I should be working on right now. Suck it, english.
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