Shower curtain liners suck big ol’ donkey dick.
There you are, enjoying your shower, and here comes the shower curtain liner, creeping up all slow like the molester ice cream van—touching you a little bit here, grazing you there, lightly rubbing, caressing softly . . .
(ugh! fuck! enough! they get the idea.)
Exactly. It drives me up the wall. What is the deal? I mean, is it just me? Is there something weird about the physics of my bathroom that turns my shower curtain liner into a pervert? It’s wrong. Wrong!
This is partially being blown out of proportion because I have personal space/touch issues. I readily acknowledge those neuroses. But this, whatever it is—an anomaly (?)—is also maddening because a great many of the ideas I write about come to me in the shower. You may find this hard to believe, but I have a hard time concentrating when I’m being molseterated. Particularly by an inanimate object.
Just this morning it was especially touchy-feely, to the point I could hardly concentrate on washing, never mind trying to hear Thalia’s whisper, inspiring what I should write today. Now what am I going to do? Go for a walk? It’s hot out there. I don’t want to have to shower again!
I call bullshit!
(there there. it’ll be alright. we should give this a rest, go do something calming. before the readers call bullshit on us.)