60 seconds.
60 seconds is a rather long time
to be doing something so mundane.
The minutes add up after a while,
like buying things at the dollar store.
Before I know it I'm in there again,
doing that again because I can't do it.
I touched something.
Roast beef, perhaps?
Peanut butter, lavender, cheese,
gasoline, vinegar, dish soap,
dirty rags and -- heaven forbid
-- another rancid human being.
It's not the germs I'm worried about.
Now I can't do it.
Because it's the putrid stench
of something so average
invading my mind,
the scent wafting through my nostrils straight to
the panic button within these mushy walls.
Something must be done.
How dare the average
take over my incredible,
albeit scattered mind?
Nothing is more important
than eliminating the vile beast.
Nothing.
Now I'm clean.
Pure hands, clear mind,
no need to shake anymore.
Warm water and soap and 60 seconds
will do that to you.
Guess how many times I washed.
I don't know, I lost track.
Guess how many times I did it.
Just while writing this -- 50 probably.
I'm cleaner than I've ever been.
I haven't showered in a week.
But I washed my hands.
