Bathrooms: Assassins

All of you living happily in your homes, feeling safe and protected from the world beyond your doors.

I must tell you scary, horrific, terrifying things.

Please do listen, you might enjoy yourself.

There is a dark side to the society we live in.

There are dangerous things that could hurt you, kill you or emotionally scar you for life.

And they are closer to you than you think.

…Within your own homes.

…In your bathrooms.

Bathrooms are dangerous places. Many of my most traumatic encounters have occurred in bathrooms, including my (tooth)brush with death.

Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will eventually die in my bathroom. Not, as many have, by a heart attack, aneurism, or extreme constipation, but by things far more sinister.

Like falling showerheads.

Yes. Falling showerheads.

There I was one morning, showering, and in my usual fashion, ruminating on the meaning of life and what I could eat for breakfast. It did not dawn upon me then, that the meaning of life might in fact be substantial breakfasts.

Suddenly there was a pop above me, followed closely by a thud and a crack at my feet.

The showerhead had popped off.

A tile had cracked.

Next to my toe.

My cursed toe that the Universe is out to get, but that is another story.

It could have been my head.

They could have found me dead, naked and contorted on the floor, blood having gushed from the showerhead shaped wound in my scalp. That would not be pretty.

Luckily at that moment I had stretched out to get my alleged “hair revitalizing” shampoo and thus failed to be decapitated by the falling bathroom fitting. My balding head saved my life. Who’d have thought?

This makes me believe that my hair is sentient and can see the future, leading it to begin falling out many years ago, just so it could save me in my moment of peril. Now that it has done that, I expect a full head of hair to grow back in a few weeks.

But it didn’t stop there.

I had now taken to showering under a headless shower. The kind Sleepy Hollow is full of.

Yet several days later, while stretching out for my con-artist shampoo, (hair still refusing to grow back), the showerhead fell at my feet again.

I, needless to say, was flabbergasted.

My showerhead was out to get me.

Not only did it attempt to decapitate me, it attempted it TWICE.

And I had left it on the shelf in the corner!

Somehow it had crept its way back into the shower-fitting, to wait for the opportune moment when it could decapitate me.

I have no idea what I could have done to make it so vengeful. So I now believe it is a hired assassin.

True, my cousin who had showered in my bathroom earlier could have placed it there, being unaware of its murderous intentions. But I like to think I’m important enough for my showerhead to want to finish the job itself.

And it could.

Anytime now.