I sat there clutching my knees together on the shower floor the other evening, as I felt the burn of thousands of hot water pellets cascading down on the top of my head, then quickly warming my goose pimpled skin. My internal thermostat had lowered so much I was trying to bring my core temp back to what would seem like an acceptable level, just to be able to exit the tub altogether.

After a while, I looked up from the wet, stark white porcelain tile, and there billowing through the wafting waves of steam, it had appeared that the shower curtain had started to grow legs. Longer dare I say, than any pair of gams I had ever seen in real life. It was right about then that I started to wonder just how long this psychedelic roller coaster was going to have me strapped in for. My second thought was, I paid money. To do this. To myself.