Bathing in the Moonlight

I just took one of the top ten baths of my life. And you might be wondering if I’ve had a bottom ten bath experience, too. I have. I’ve had ten of them. I’ve had ten bottom ten bath experiences. I’ve been sitting in the bath, with the water way too hot, not enjoying myself at all, thinking “why has it all come to this?” Today was not one of those days. Today was a great bath.

It wasn’t the best bath I’ve ever had. I know the best bath I’ve ever had, and it wasn’t this one. This was the best one since that bath, however. It may be top five. Now that I’m thinking back to the baths of the past, I realize I’ve had some bath bangers. One time I took sleepy time tea and ripped a bag of Epsom salt into that bitch, coupled with a few drops of lavender oil and I kid you not with a side of creamed corn I was sent to the moon and back.

Man, that bath was so long ago. That bath got me through an entire toxic relationship. Every day I would wake up wondering why I was lying next to the person by my side and remember that soak of sheer ecstasy. The thoughts in my mind would subside as my body relaxed into a state so sublime.

One good bath can make you forget entirely about how your sociopath girlfriend was fighting the urge to murder the college guys in the laundry room. If that was a bad bath I don’t know where I’d be in life right now. I might not even be, honestly. I could be the most dead anyone has ever been if it weren’t for that bath. I don’t know how I’m still here to be honest. I’ve almost died way too many times.

I should write a memoir based around my baths. That would be the only way I could skirt the vanity of such an activity. What if I wrote a memoir that was just about how much of a dumbass I am? Just the most self-effacing memoir of all time. A roast of myself. Oh man, that would be hilarious. A memoir titled “The Roast of Me.” If I ever make it past 50 I’m going to write a memoir only containing the most dumb, embarrassing moments of my life. There’s no shortage of those, it might be a long book.

I actually prefer the title “My Dumb Life.” This is great. Honestly, this is the only motivation I have to live a long life. I’m not depressed or anything, and a long life would be fine if it so happens, but I have no desire for it to happen. I really don’t care. I could die tomorrow and that would be fine or whatever.

Is that weird, that my only motivation for living a long time is to do enough dumb shit to eventually be able to write a roast about myself? I don’t think that’s weird. You’re weird.

- The Guy