I was in the shower this morning wondering what to blog about. Then it hit me (rather, I hit it; more on that later). I have a little confession to make, une petite confession (no, not la petite mort -- that's something entirely different but just as liberating). This is something I haven't even told my therapist.
Um, sometimes, maybe, I, sort of, allow myself to pee in the shower.
There, I feel better already. I got that off my chest (you're right; literally speaking, that function is performed a few feet south of my chest).
Okay, so it's probably a GDT (Gender Differentiator Thing).
But you don't expect me to get out of the shower, perform the deed, and hop back in, do you?
I think it has something to do with the warm water.
Do I hit the drain? Does it matter? (I do keep the water running to keep things filtered and flushed and purified.)
So, Marcel Proust was right. Anything can be made into "literature," not that The Laughorist claims such lofty status despite his use of the hifalutin third person singular.
But Proust undoubtedly took baths, not showers.
This is where I loudly proclaim, "No further comment."