Since Bryan brought up nudity, let's keep the balls rolling, or hanging, or whatever...
Four minutes of glory. That's what I get each day, no more, no less. Four minutes of steaming, soapy escape from the perpetual icebox that is daily life in the winter of Chicago. Why four minutes? Because that's exactly how long I have before the water heater is drained and my shower becomes the instant urinal of Frosty the Snowman. Even though it's quickly made a more efficient showerer out of me, it's still a pain in the ass. I mean, a man can't even take the time to enjoy a beer in there when he's on that kind of time crunch.
Who'd have ever guessed that jury-rigging a shared hot-water line with the building's laundry machines might have been a bad idea? Certainly not my stoned landlord. Then again, he also thinks it sensible to seek medical advice from a writer. "Brandon, do this look broke to you?" This, while displaying his purple, baseball-sized wrist to me three days after losing a fight with a plumber's toilet snake.
In retrospect, before signing the lease, I suppose it might have been foolish to assume that I wouldn't need to choose between doing the dishes or taking a comfortable shower within the same hour. But, you know what they say about 'assume:' It's synonymous with 'spontaneous shrinkage.' In a good-faith effort, at least the landlord offered to pay most of my gas bill, which directly feeds the community washer and dryer, anyway.
So, like Bryan I found myself in an irritating circumstance. And, I too came up with somewhat of an improvised solution. Since the lion's share of my hot water is spent washing other people's undies, I've decided to embark on a personal mission of water reclamation. Just don't pay attention to that naked guy sipping a Sam Adams, sloshing around in the spin cycle with your Levi's. And if you please, for the sake of my unmentionables, go easy on the bleach, huh?
Song playing right now: Stickshifts and Safety Belts - by Cake
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