Exfoliate

Dear High-Maintenance Girl Whose Apartment I Crashed At Last Night,

Thank you for leaving me that fresh towel before you left for work, because I otherwise can imagine myself having dried off with baby wipes and a curling iron and ending up in the E.R.

Why must you, and all the girls out there like you, have so many beautification products in the bathroom? What are you DOING with all this crap? Seriously, leaving me on my own in there is about as bad as just dropping me smack in the middle of the Martian desert. I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the place.

Let's start with the basics here. WHERE'S THE SOAP? There wasn't any. There were fifteen different implementations in there that could have been used either for cleaning or as instruments of death and torture. YOU'VE GOT A GIANT ROCK IN THERE. Who the hell needs giant rocks in the shower? And don't get me started on all those poofy things. Frankly, I'm far too concerned about my safety to screw with any of this stuff. The closest thing I could find to good old-fashioned liquid soap was some of this exfoliating emulsifying body wash stuff. It was infused with apricot and crushed peas and some other ingredients, and it smelled fantastic. Seemed like the right place to start. So I gave it a whirl.

Apparently this stuff slipped under the FDA's radar and was never tested on humans, because I can only imagine that this is what it feels like to get stung by a giant killer jellyfish down there. SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE THIS POISON OFF THE SHELVES. Or at least stick on a warning label for gentlemen, so we know not to mess with it.

I recovered as best I could, stumbled out of the shower with my eyes still watering, dried off, and pulled the old "brush my teeth with my finger" routine (I wasn't about to try and operate that rechargeable ultraviolet sonic tooth cleaning apparatus I saw on your shelf; I'd have surely been maimed). Of course, if you have a sharp edge on one of the fillings you got when you were a kid, you ought be careful with how hard you press down on that edge, because it could open an ENORMOUS GASH in your index finger (right now, as I sit here and type this, I've got my right index finger covered in a makeshift bandage of napkin and scotch tape).

I did my best to clean off my finger and stop the bleeding, but now my eyes are watering even worse. Still, I'm running late for work and have to get a move on. I next borrowed some of your hair gel. Or at least this stuff looked like hair gel. Seriously, watering eyes or not, no way I would have taken it to be anything but hair gel. I tried to manipulate the stuff with my one uninjured hand, and I'm not quite making any progress here, because the hair in front that I usually make a little spiky isn't looking spiky at all. It's at this point that I look closer and realize this isn't hair gel, and also that I start feeling like I stumbled into the house from Home Alone and you've intentionally booby trapped the jesus out of it.

Well, I finally made it into work, no thanks to playing Duane Reade For the Blind and/or Disabled at your place. And, here I am sitting in the office, and my undercarriage stings, and my teeth are sort-of brushed, and my hair is flat and soaked in shaving gel, and my finger is dressed in a ridiculous bandage that looks like it came out of Lord of the Flies or Lost, and all of this is tied up neatly with a little bow of "yes, I'm wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday." Lesson learned, High-Maintenance Girl. From now on I'm taking a bar of ivory soap with me everywhere I go.

Is it Friday yet?