I love when the moon is full and covers everything in its cool moon-ish glow. I love the way it looks in the night sky, all round and moon-like. Yeah. I'm a poet. I know. Alright, so I was looking at the moon, which I think is awesome, by the way, way cooler than the sun (you know, because the sun is like, super hot) and I realized that I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. There I was, sitting in my bed, incredibly cozy, my window open, letting in the crisp late-autumn air. There I was, enjoying the sight of the full moon through my window screen, enjoying the silhouettes and shadows it created in my room, the way it lit up the whole town of Danforth without making my pupils constrict. Fuck. I had to brush my teeth. I couldn't just skip that. Which meant I had to get out of bed and expose my entirely naked body to the cold air of my room, ruining the cozy cocoon of blankets I had so carefully crafted. Damnit.
Mom would insist that I had brought this problem upon myself, that if I didn't keep my room "so damn cold" by leaving the windows open all the time, that maybe I would have less trouble getting out of bed. She was right, but the benefits of a cozy den of blankets that made me feel warm and safe when surrounded by cool, crisp, delicious air... those benefits were worth the hypothermic endeavor in which I was about to partake. Is hypothermic a word? I slithered out of bed. Thank god for my rug, because, for the blissful few seconds before I made it to the hallway, my feet–actually, fuck that; I am not going to talk about my feet. I'm not weird. The point I was going to make was that the floor in the hallway was hardwood, and the floor of the bathroom was tile, while my room had a soft and fluffy rug.
Halfway through brushing my teeth, colder than Luke Skywalker right before he cut open the Tauntaun and climbed inside of it, I decided to shower. I mean, I was already standing next to it, and I was already butt-ass naked, and I was cold. But wait. Showering without my phone? Never! But my phone was back in my room. My cold room. I supposed the hardest choices and the most treacherous of journeys require the strongest of wills.
Alright. Let's be smart about this. I knew my shower well enough to know exactly how far to turn the handle to get the perfect temperature. I suppose it was an intimate relationship we had, my shower and I: best buddies, besties for the resties. Until my parents eventually sold the house. Not important. Anyways. I took to the strategy of setting the temperature just right, before taking off towards my room like Diego chasing the gazelle in that first Ice Age movie. The gazelle was my phone. The ice age was my room. Sprint, grab phone, sprint back. Done. I opened my phone to Spotify, and clicked shuffle on a playlist titled, "Slow Songs That Are Actually Bangers." Lewis Capaldi's Someone You Loved came on. What an absolute banger. Whoever made this playlist must have great taste in music. Oh right, I did. It's true; I do have great taste in music.
There I was, enjoying my Saturday night, alone with Lewis Capaldi blasting in the shower, and I was happy. You know what makes Saturday night so incredible? Sunday morning. What an interesting relationship they have. In reality, Saturday night does not have anything going for it that, for example, Tuesday night doesn't have. Not like I ever have commitments on either of them. The difference is that Saturday night has Sunday morning. Assurance that I could've stayed up late and had fun without feeling like those guys in that movie The Hangover when I'd have to wake up for school the following morning. I guess I could have just said, 'without feeling hungover.' So, if we do some math on this one, I liked Saturday nights more than I liked Tuesday nights, and the only difference between the two was that Saturday nights were followed by Sunday mornings, therefore I could sleep in, and, more importantly, not have to go to school. I guess that means I didn't like school–that is, if the absence of school on Sunday morning was what made Saturday night so much fun. Shower thoughts.
I reached over and grabbed my Spider-Man 3 in 1 Shampoo, Conditioner, and Body Wash that was very clearly designed for, and marketed towards, eight-year-olds, not eighteen-year-olds. Who gives? It's dope as hell. At this point in the shower, I was listening to Adele sing about one of her past lovers, and yes, I'm aware that that doesn't narrow it down at all.
