If I had a Twitter my posts would be something like this:
The sink in my apartment is so low and so close to my toilet, that when I take a leak, I splash the hotness all over it.
But I do not have a Twitter; I have a literary blog and instead I am going to discuss pissing in my shower.
Civilization and the technology that it furnishes has led to many great advances: decreased infant mortality, longer and healthier lives, really fucking fast cars, houses that hypothetically warm at the flick of a switch, and bicycles.
The same tools that enable us to lead modern lives also constrain us. The cinderblock walls of my home disconnects me from the nature that existed outside. The rug in my room necessitates that I do not take a piss on it. Man can no longer relieve himself in the midst of the wild grass, for his neighbor would call to him, "Hey buddy, the fuck are you doing, stop shitting on my grass! I am calling the cops on you, you pervy fuck!"
This dissonance between the lives we led, harmonizing with the cycles of the year and the softness of the Indian Toilet Paper plant have ceased, breeding discontent, ennui and frustration.
Luckily, the modern home brings modern humanity a facsimile of the freedom we had without the restrictions of our softwood floors that would suck up a tinkle like a tampon in an elephant. And down comforters can never really be cleaned; don't piss on that. I mean, I fucking tried to clean that thing, and all that happened was that it became aromatic of mildew.
The shower-bathtub combination provides us with the amenity that returns us to our natural state. A perfectly unfettered, unleashing of body water.
One needn't even wear clothes, truly reconciled to the time before Original Sin. Indeed one would be a fool to wear clothes in the shower, unless of course Blue Moon occurrence you have puked all over yourself.
In the shower, you need not worry where the stream goes at all. Sure your arc may goatop your roommates bottle of St. Ives Apricot Facial Scrub or dear mother's loofa, but that's what the shower is for. The water will clean it off. No need to get mad at me, ma.
In there, it's just the open air, without any hands, letting it all go, without even the need for a shake off.
The technology of the tub enables the return to a purer time.
Oh, yeeeah.
I wish things were always so simple.
But the truth is the bathtub may backfire. The water does not always drain. The uncareful urinator may find himself ankle-deep in his own dross and dreck. When the landlord comes to snake the tub, he may complain. "Who the fuck has been pissing in the shower!"
At wish point, I will remind him of the inherent human right, stipulated in the lease, that his must facilitate such behaviors.
I have never had a full security deposit returned to me.
In such instances of clogging, one must act ever so quickly, making sure to get to it before it gets to you, and in the case the bather forgets that his roommates have neglected once again to remove their hairs from drain for the third time this week, he will stand amid his own stagnation.
And your roommates will come to you and say, "Max, how did our toothbrushes fall into the shower?"
And you will say, "Flossing is better for your teeth anyway."
Let no man deprive you of the euphoria of the unbounded water making the way nature meant it to be . .
