First there was the misting shower in the trash heap of a house; Maison de Saleté. I felt dirtier coming out, then I did going in - ALWAYS - by months end, I might as well have been wallowing in a pigpen. The mist part was cool like a beautiful rainforest oh.... the first three times I used it, until I realized not only had the rainforest been cut down but all the cool rainforest animals that might have kept me company, had been raped by the steel dick of industry and sold their souls for tickets to Clarksville. What was left por Jules? Just a grumpy, non communicating lump of watchful soot, resin and nerves who waited on shards of glass for me to move a shampoo bottle or adjust the shower poof 35° left of North instead of its normal resting place of 45° right of North. One could say my actions inside (and stepping out of) that shower were scrutinized as though the CIA were standing over me taking notes on the direction I shaved my legs and hung my towel to dry. If you have panic attacks prior to cleansing, it might be time to change environments.
Next living space and the unfinished shower. The water was warm and the pressure was awesome but the bathroom was 50 years old (peeling caulk, broken tiles) AND on the other end of the house. Well... the working bathroom. In my master, the shower stall had no bottom. Literally, I could look down and see the dirt under the house - possibly a decomposed body - gross speculation however, running rampant with sedation that kept my sanity from climbing the wood grain paneled walls nightly. Thats right, wood grain paneled walls my lovelies, you are so hot for it, mass panty changing has just occurred, of this I am sure. Sitting on my tiny stool in this inner 1/2 sanctum, whispering "Hellooooo sweet raccoons, snakes and plethora of bug gangs, please, please, please stay where you are, I don't want to kill you and you don't want to die" I was hoping to all that was the Universe, Santa would bring me the luxury of a private hot shower one day.
Santa, did not. Santa, I later found out, was forced (FORCED!) to take all the fix/retile floor money and buy several eight balls of coke in which to snort up his big red ho ho hoeing nose, half naked elves with recent scars from discount boob jobs and enough makeup to make Mr. Bill's face look real, pawing all over him like kittens weened far too early. MILK!
I knew that fat mother fucker couldn't be trusted, deceiver of children, keeper of animals who would rather run wild than be forced into slave labor working massive overtime ON A HOLIDAY... what a jerk.
I don't know. Maybe he gave them the week off between Christmas and New Years (cough, choke, puke) to make up for it. Where was I... oh right, ON TRACK. I was right on track.
So when I finally found my current living space, I was overjoyed. Newly gutted and remodeled, brand new everything - INCLUDING BATHROOMS. There were three in the house and mine was private, working and sparkling clean. It seemed as though golden light was finally shining down upon me, OH MY, and my bathroom was a full bathroom which means (drum roll) I HAD A FUCKING BATHTUB!!! BRAND FUCKING NEW WITH STICKERS, NOT A GOD DAMN THING CAN GO WRONG NOR STAND IN THE WAY OF ME BONDING WITH THE WATER FLOWING THROUGH YOUR NEWLY INSTALLED PIPES OH SHOWER, MY SHOWER!!!! Calgon, please, take me away, fuck me twice, make me a cocktail and read me Italian poetry. I masturbated thinking of that bathroom for an entire week before moving.
Whatever.
Work? Function? Golden cherub light?
Fuck you, the boat you came in on, everything you cherish, all your hopes and dreams oh and also your little cats too. Once I used said shower, I realized it was all farce. Tiny laughs, from a tiny audience, from the tiny imaginary stage of:
'I hate your fucking guts, Julie, Act 3'.
Consistently lukewarm (even though the temperature on the water heater reads: Hell) and if anything else in the house that requires water is on, you have approximately 3 minutes before hypothermia sets in; subpar performance from a steroid taking Megagod, whose erection is stiff enough to keep the condom on but lackluster in reaching all points needed for one to be considered properly tapped. Bath? Guess who's drain doesn't QUITE shut all the way.
*endless amount of salty tears*
It was nearly the biggest let down of 2009. NEARLY.
Renters. Buyers. Squatters. A word to the wise. Always run the water, in every portion of the house, while simultaneously flushing all toilets and just for fun set the ice maker's setting to HEAPS and wash some imaginary clothes and dishes before you sign any paperwork. Any. Ever.
This weekend, I visited what may potentially be my new shared residence (yes, I am moving again and at this point in time, I have actually come to appreciate this yearly cycle - the change of scenery is rather nice and redecorating is awesome x's a koi).
In the master bedroom there is: an olympic sized bathtub fit for a king + every member of parliament, that includes a separate shower of solid gold and molded baby angel wings, which I can only assume will work properly but whose mechanics I will test no less than 3 times prior with a scientific team of ten, just to be sure.
Do not bust this bath bubble with your hateful Murphy's Law reminders. I got this.
I find myself, once again, dreaming of bathing in a future of scalding hot water. Last night I had the most erotic dream I have had to date. My epidermis was literally pealing away as the orgasms came rolling in.
Vanilla-scented, candle-lit third degree burns, here I come.
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