Wake up–it’s 8:15. Hit the snooze for seven minutes. Why? I have no idea, honestly. I groan as I throw my clothes on the floor. “My room is such a mess,” I think as I wrap the towel round myself. I dread the showers, well, the bathroom in general. The concept of a floor bathroom does not appeal to me even remotely. My fear of germs has reached a near incapacitating level this semester, for whatever reason. I must not touch anything but the door, and even when I do that, hand sanitizer must be the next thing I touch. Upon entering, I pull the ripped shower curtain closed–as much as it will, being that it’s only half a curtain now… Noting with disgust the white tarnish on the silvery knob, I twist it just past the “C.” It takes a while to warm up, but the water has a tendency towards bipolarity. I drop the heavy bottle of Dove Pomegranate soap which is followed by the world’s most conspicuous “thud.” It echoes off every wall and I decide since I have already gotten soap onto my cloth, that the stupid bottle will just have to stay on the floor until I leave. I wash my arms, my legs, then shampoo my hair, and contemplate shaving my legs. My boyfriend is abroad so he won’t see the four-day stubble, and it’s cold. I decide not to. Someone enters and I hear the click of the lock on the bathroom stall. I hate this. I warily wait for the sound of the toilet flush and immediately maneuver the shower head away from my body. After two years of living here, I know that when a toilet is flushed, the cold water valve is closed. The water has left blistering burns on my neck before and I will never make that idle mistake again. Now, theres is nothing left to do but turn off the water and get out. But then I have to get dressed, and that’s an entirely new struggle. I stand there letting the water cascade down my back, wondering “What the hell do I want to wear today?”
writing simply is 