Cold Shower

Guess what? The water in the apartment is barely warm! In fact, it’s not even lukeperrywarm. Or tepid. It’s cool. The water, that is. The situation, however, is not cool. The situation blows. The situation is pissing me off. In fact, not to be crude or anything (I am, after all, still a lady), but the water isn’t even piss warm.
What this means, then, is that I can’t take a shower. I refuse to stand underneath a stream of not-even-close-to-warm water and shiver my way to cleanliness. So here I am, après-gym disgusting, hunched over my keyboard, wrapped in an oversized leopard-print terry robe and big fat fuzzy socks to which dog hair insists on clinging. Hair in strings around my head. Scowling. Filthy dirty girl. I may as well just start “surfing” for porn now, so I’ll need a cold shower.
It’s this logical problem-solving technique that got me where I am today.
And please don’t suggest I take a shower at the gym. The showers there have wavy-glass doors that provide not a modicum of modesty and actually make the shower-taker look less than svelte. No way.
Porn, here I come!
Happy Birthday!