It's The Simple Things That Kill

“It's all very simple. But maybe because it's so simple, it's also hard.” 
― Natsuki Takaya

'They' tell us to appreciate the simple things.

Let's stop right there.

Who the fuck are 'they' and what exactly do 'they' know? Might as well tell me that you're from the government and how you're here to help me. I call bullshit; I've had enough of 'their' fuckery.

It's the simple things that will kill you. Trust me on this, I know better than you do. Seriously.

My shower tried to assassinate me, today. I know, it seems crazy, but it's true. It was like a crazed psycho ninja all hopped up on meth and lsd. I'd swear on a stack of bibles, if I believed in that shit. 

Let me start at the beginning.

I woke to the sound of rain. That sounds pretty ominous, or maybe it was just raining out. Whatever.

How about this? I woke to the sound of rain. I was wet, I was cold and more than a little disoriented. Slowly, memory returned...

Better?

Little did I know that death had been waiting for me, but I managed to escape from that fucker. Eloquent, even. I should write a fucking novel.

I had been in the shower, I knew this much. Pffft... It barely rates being called a shower. I'm a pretty average sized guy, but this thing is so small, I am constantly bumping and banging this or that in my efforts to maintain personal hygiene. It's more like a telephone booth that shoots water at you in an extreme of two temperatures; shrinkage fucking cold or burn your fucking balls off hot. So, I'm in the shower (which is trying to kill me; let's not lose sight of that small detail) and I accidentally knocked down one of my girlfriend's potions and lotions. No big deal, right? I bend down, pick it up and put it back where it belongs.

Simple, right?

Not exactly.

Here's where things go slightly awry and attempted murder ensues.

I bend down to pick up whatever bottle of bullshit that I had knocked over, accidentally hitting the faucet handle and sending the temperature setting of the water to nuclear reactor coolant hot. Fuck me, that shit was hot. As the skin was starting to peel off of my back and ass, I blindly reached my hand up to turn the water temperature back down only to succeed in somehow knocking an entire shelf of shampoo, conditioner and other crap on my cranium. It was like a fucking avalanche of bottles, one right after another, bouncing off my bald ass head. Meanwhile, my hand did manage to connect with the faucet handle and suddenly the water temperature was so cold that icicles were hanging from my balls like stalactites. Not cool. Even better, in my vain attempt to dodge the cascade of conditioner, I lost my balance and stumbled in to the shower door. No fucking bueno. Nope, no fucking bueno at all.

As the door gave way and I became airborne, I had the following thought...

No bueno.

It's a stall shower, but you get my point.

Just like Peter Fucking Pan.

Except... There was no fucking Tinker Bell, no fucking Wendy, no fucking Lost Boys and certainly, no fucking Indians. Fuck, I always had a thing for Tiger Lily.

Muy bueno,

No pirates, no pirate ship and no Captain Hook. There was a second star to the right, however. As a matter of fact, there were a lot of fucking stars that I saw when my head slammed into the bathroom counter. Come to think of it, I think I saw some Heffalumps and Woozles, too.

And that, my friends, is the last thing I remember before waking to the sound of rain.

Fucking glorious, but at least no one found me dead and naked. Thank goodness, for the little things.

Oh wait, those fucking things kill too...

Balls.

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