Bubbly

You know what I’m not too fond of? Something I don’t hate it (believe it or not), but about which I’m not too crazy?
Baths. With or without bubbles. I don’t know. Call me wacky, but I just don’t like reclining in a tub full of my own floating filth (because I’m a dirty dirty girl, oh yes). And I don’t appreciate that the water doesn’t stay hot long enough for my skin to slide off my bones like chicken or to make a delightful Jodi Consommé to be enjoyed later in the afternoon with two slices of melba toast. And I just can’t get into lighting aromatherapeutic candles and sipping champagne from a crystal flute while Yanni plays in the background and I play with myself below the surface of the water. (JUST KIDDING about that last part! I love Yanni with my yoni!)
Give me a shower any day. (Every day, actually. At least once.) Give me a shower with water so hot that if its steady, forceful rush didn’t chase my filth off my body, it would steam it so thoroughly that it would peel off like a label from a champagne bottle. And give me a cold Diet Coke that I can perch on the sink ledge and occasionally reach for when I need a little caffeine jolt to counteract the soporific effect of the steam.
Baths are too passive. I’m a girl on the go!
And in a moment, I will actively pursue my morning cleansing and prepare to enjoy a day of effervescent activity on the streets of New York City. And a nice lunch where I will not order the soup, because I always suspect there’s a bit of something bubbly in the broth. Veuve Clicquot? Mr. Bubble? Either, or.
Have a stellar Saturday!