en la lluvia me prometistes tu sangre

All I want right now, other than to eat cookies for breakfast, is to take the longest, hottest shower ever known to man. I need this. Spiritually and existentially, this shower was supposed to cleanse a mess of the worlds sins against me. 4am bed-time and late-night upset-sister phone call and a crew of we-make-secrets-not-friends dance partners and lingering-mystery-text-message (which is not even to mention how much beer I had spilled on me last night). And I woke up at 9, which does not qualify as "sleeping in" for a 4am bed time. And I woke up w/ the by-product of my protestant up-bringing, which is mystery-guilt-about-nothing-in-particular.

And my hair is SO greasy.

And now, lyrics by The Mars Volta:
sutured contusion/ beyond the anthills of the dawning of this plague / said I've lost my way / even if / this cul de sac would pay / to reach inside a vault whatever be the cost / sterling clear / blackened ice

And now, the rest of my story:
So, I crawl out of bed, a meek tremble of a sarcophagus form, and gather my clothes for the day and examine the unruliness of my eye-brows on the mirror. Flip the dial. Switch the shower switch. Glare at myself in the mirror, wondering who this person is, who is/was a lossless cd recording of myself. Touch the flow.

COLD. Not chilling tap-water cold, but just flacid-heat-source cold. Dull back-yard pool cold.

Bring-me-hot-water-or-your-life dial to 11. Something that quite entirely unlike warmth. I can't shower in this shit.

Now I'm moping about it on the internet. Waiting. Wanting.

In Conclusion, Ladies and Jelly-Spoons, More Lyrics by The Mars Volta:
Spilling from morgue lancet / Caressed your fontanelle / I've sworn to kill every last one / Every last one / Panic in the shakes of the wounded / Panic in the worms / Onto the floor / And out of your mouth