Back in Black

I don’t like taking showers. It’s not that I’m a dirty person, or that I don’t clean myself everyday; it’s just that everyday I postpone the process of cleaning myself for as long as possible. One problem with this strategy is that I also hate feeling dirty. In fact, the only thing I hate more than taking a shower is feeling dirty. So, in the precise moment when my disdain for feeling dirty has eclipsed my desire to put off taking a shower any longer, I am probably the most fearsome creature on the face of this Earth. I often try to alleviate the monster that is created by the meeting of these two hates by drinking heroic quantities of coffee, and reminding myself that water feels better than acid. But these tactics do little, and prove but temporary as the beast within me rages.

You see, this beast is not interested in rational thoughts and drugs like normal folks; this beast just wants to be miserable. That’s ‘cause this beast only exists in the first place because I am being miserable. So the only way to kill the beast is to face it head on with a luffa (and hypoallergenic body wash) and scrub the beast from head to toe. It’s dirty work (at first), but someone has to do it, and that someone is generally me. I’m not gonna claim it’s fun, but I will admit once it gets going, strange thoughts start entering my head, thoughts like: “Why did I put this off for so long?” and “This isn’t so bad!” and “That’s not really strawberry! It’s more of a apple-tart!”—and that’s when you know the beast is dead; ‘cause the beast doesn’t have evolved olfactory senses. To the beast, strawberries smell like sardines. In fact, the beast thinks pretty much everything smells like sardines. That’s one of the most compelling reasons to kill the beast in the first place. I try to remind myself of this in the bargaining stage of the clean myself/feel dirty debate, but with all the caffeine flying through my system it can be very difficult to think straight. I will confess that sometimes I do feel sorry for the beast and the vast variety of smells he never really experiences. But when I’m reminded of how crappy he makes me feel every morning, I take a sort of cruel pleasure in knowing that I can distinguish vanilla from day old fart, but he can’t, and I try to imagine the sort of flavors of ice cream that I could get him to eat! I know, it’s mean; but if you really think about it, there’s a certain justice to it all.

Maybe someday I will grow older (this has been happening so far), and wiser (not so much), and evolve (your joke here) to the point where the process of cleaning myself, and how I get there, isn’t such a dilemma. Maybe the beast will evolve, himself; or maybe he’ll just go bother someone else with healthier caffeine habits; few mortals –if in fact that’s what he is– can keep up with me in this regard. Whatever happens, it will be a glorious day when I can rise from bed at the crack of 12:30 or 1:30 and think to myself:

“I desire water to be splashed upon my body at various angles and velocities… water with the hint of melon, or lavender, or sage… water that bubbles and froths when rubbed upon my skin… to scrub myself with a subtropical vine whose name rhymes with “poo-fa”… or some charming manmade imitation of such a plant… and while enjoying this delectable cleansing of body and spirit, I desire to sing a song to a long lost companion… such a one whose olfactory senses and manners and lack of caffeine addiction needed mending, but whose spirit and tenacity rivaled that of Job himself… For the beast within, that is no more… I raise this effervescent soap bubble… to you!”

‘Till next time… ROAR!