Here’s the story of misery, more misery, and slight joy.
A seething, smouldering, festering, rotting hate dwells deep within me. A fiery anger, a passion only surpassed by a lonely night in 17th century Paris with a harlot and a headless chicken. Like having 1,000 cuts whilst floating in the Dead Sea. A hectic hell of hellish heckles. It was the final straw! And I mean that metaphorically, because literally, we’ll never run out of straw. I mean, what I’m trying to say, is that despite the sheer abundance of straw, this was the last straw I happened to have on me because I didn’t have any money to buy any more straw. Ergo, it was a catastrophe. My straw needs were going untended. And that is simply unacceptable! Nobody takes my final straw, dagnabbit! Nobody, I tells ya! You mess with my shower routine, the gloves are off, m’laddo. And that’s a phrase you can’t argue with. Unless you’re opponent has had the same idea. In which case, you’re screwed. Would you not care for a game of chess, instead?
Oh, I’m fairly tolerant fellow. But I can’t tolerate you messing with my routine. It is solid. It is set in stone. It doesn’t change for no man or no women. I don’t care how pretty she is. I don’t care if she comes gift wrapped in tinsel, bells and whistles, I don’t even care if she pops out of a giant cake completely naked. Nobody messes with my routine. It throws my whole logic out of whack. And what did somebody do this week? You guessed it. They really fried my potatoes. Now that’s a strange phrase. Who fries potatoes? I suppose it could be referring to the act being crazy, ergo, I’m crazy, but…
The main bathroom is my bathroom. Nobody else uses it, therefore, my bathroom. It assimilated that term. I didn’t declare it my bathroom and then followed a war that I won. I’ll tolerate a bit of work here and there, but there’s no way I can tolerate a full-scale takeover. ‘Oh, it’s just one day, one little day, you’ll have to use the other bathroom’, said dad. He’s doing work to ‘my’ bathroom, ergo I can’t use the shower. The other bathroom he was referencing is actually an en-suit. One that has pushed my straws to breaking point. Or something to that effect.
It’s cold in there. Why is it so cold? The windows aren’t sealed properly. There’s a draft. The extractor fan doesn’t work. The room is poorly laid out. The shower cubicle floor is sticky. It seals the heat in so well that when you open the door, the difference in air temperature is startling. You are hit with an arctic breeze that practically knocks you out. The cubicle is tiny. You try to move, you knock the door and it flies open, sending a spray of water cascading all over the floor and walls. If you shut it, you’re sent back into that demonic chamber rife with obstacles. Obstacles one is regularly acquainted with as one bangs heads, arms, legs and other body parts, causing bloody scratches, bruises and bumps unlike anything you can imagine. You bend over to pick up the shampoo and your arse cheeks turn the water off. You try to get it back on and the showerhead comes off because it was installed by an idiot. And when you try to get the water back on, it takes ten minutes to heat up. One time, I hit the shower box thingy so hard, the cover came off and the power in the entire house went off. At midnight. IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER!
The worst part is that the magical ‘one day’ promise dad gave has ballooned into several days of hell. I could easily forgive the bathroom’s foibles if it wasn’t upsetting my routine so much. I know where everything is in my bathroom, I know where to put things and what to do in the correct order. But in a strange new environment, I just can’t get the hang of it. I keep forgetting things. I’m doing things out of order, which is leaving me disorientated. I can’t do things I’d normally do. IT’S STRESSING ME OUT!
Can it get any worse? Oh boy, yes. I have a shower on the dot, every other day at 11:30 pm right before bed. It leaves me refreshed and sleepy. I have problems sleeping. A shower before bed is ideal. But mother and father are in their early 60s. They go to bed at 10. Meaning I have to have a shower two hours early because the other bathroom, the en-suit, can only be accessed from their room. But I have a schedule! I have things to do and a night’s television all planned. Every day. But oh no, that goes out of the window! It’s affecting my sleep patterns. I’m not getting any sleep and during the day, I’m constantly falling asleep! I have a big week ahead, falling asleep isn’t an option, people! When you are organized and have a schedule, the world is perfect. When that schedule is interrupted, you have an angry me trying to write a blog post that makes me sound like my incredibly short fuse has blown up whatever it was attached to! And why? BECAUSE I HAVE A TIME WHEN I WRITE AND NOW IS NOT IT BECAUSE EVERYTHING HAS TURNED CRAAAZEEE!
You can argue all you want. ‘Your bathroom needs some work, whoop-de-do, you need to use the other bathroom for your showering needs. Are you really getting stressed over that?’ YES! I need order, readers! It won’t do! When I get ready in the morning, I still use my bathroom. I can for that. But rinsing your mouth out with water swimming with sealant isn’t normal! Shaving in a sink of bits, resulting in a cut up face, isn’t normal! And I can’t clean it because firstly, it isn’t my job and secondly, it just keeps coming back! It’s undefeatable! I want my bathroom back. I want my bathroom back! I WANT MY BATHROOM BACK!
Oh yea, though, maybe it’s all an overreaction. Two weeks. That’s it. New sealant, cleaning, new paint on the walls. Which will make my morning routine especially hazardous with the addition of highly toxic paint fumes. Yes, it’s all for nothing. Who cares if the world has no logic, order, organization, or scheduling? Let’s all go and dance around the maypole smoking pixie dust, completely naked with our twenty wives in tow before we enjoy the magical unicorn soup before a game of inter-dimensional chess before going to bed on a floating river of bloody rainbow coloured coconuts!
I’m so tired. Why, why take my bathroom? Why not tidy it each night? Why take down the only mirror, which I need? Why shout at me when I try to raise these concerns? Which the folks do, by the way. I know you think I shouldn’t let it bother me. I know you think I’m overreacting. But you aren’t here. You aren’t me. You don’t know what it’s like to have a brain like mine. I had a vicious migraine this week, I get them all the time. I’m almost certain it was caused by the large quantity of sealant I’ve ingested. And if you want to get a sense of how much this chaos has thrown my rhythms out of sync, how about this. That migraine, a really bad one, was, until Friday, the highlight of my week. Seriously.
Now, I know I’m not an angry person. I know you don’t like to see me upset although you often have a penchant for my humorous stories of accidental injury. You don’t want me to leave a bitter taste in your mouth until next week. And I suppose telling you about the time dad slipped on some sealant whilst trying to reseal the bathtub causing him to knock the hot water tap on, soaking him, isn’t very funny despite the fact that it was the sweetest kind of fateful vengeance.
I had an appointment this week, on Friday. To a strange and far off land. Three miles away. For shy people, venturing into unknown territory is the most frightening thing imaginable. For extroverts, it’s simply a one-bus exchange, what’s the big deal? You can’t understand how scary it is for us shy ones. Your head becomes full of thoughts of what could go wrong until the point where you become convinced those things will go wrong. You sweat and become trapped inside a cage of dread. And you know what? In my week of hell, I achieved it. It was easy.
My shower woes and appointment fright may seem insignificant to you, but they’re not. That shower has really, really upset and affected me. But for making that journey to that appointment, I’m really proud. I may come across as a tad ‘coo-coo bananas’, but to me it’s normal life. Everything you read is normal. But don’t feel like I’m down and out. Don’t have a bitter taste in your mouth. I’m alright. I’ll be alright. Because I made a journey, and the pride that left me with is carrying me through my shower hell.
Oh, and I do apologize for giving you the image of me knocking the water off with my arse cheeks. Too graphic. I can’t help it, I have a really fat arse. What? Did I make things worse?
Ah well, you can’t say I didn’t try…
British-born American comedian and violinist, Henry “Henny” Youngman, (1906-1998), once said: “I told the doctor I broke my leg in two places. He told me to quit going to those places.”
Peace Out :|:
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