My bathroom is falling apart.
I think we desperately need a new shower curtain.
You see, I live in an apartment with four guys. And considering that only one of us has a steady job right now, seeing how the paying market for male go-go dancers has dwindled, we can only afford to buy the essentials, such as Red Vines and Lego's of spider robots.
It is for this very reason that we decided two shower curtains for each bathroom was a luxury we could not treat ourselves to.
"Why?" I asked, "Just why do we need a curtain for the outside of the shower, when there is one already on the inside?!"
"What is this, the Ritz?!" I added, screaming.
I was certain that this was just another scam by those fat-cat shower-curtain corporations to convince the masses that they needed unnecessary curtains for their bathrooms, and make millions in the process. I sat on the toilet, cursing their names with my fist in the air as I stared aimlessly at our barren shower rod, void of a curtain to hang on it.
Eventually we managed to find shower curtains, but we were faced with a difficult decision. Should we buy transparent curtains, or white?
White, I noted, tend to look dirtier faster.
So we went with transparent.
Immediately, upon arriving at home, we realized that the one transparent shower curtain for each of our two bathrooms meant visible showers for all to see.
While this was in part beneficial to our training for male go-go dancing positions, in terms of physical and emotional boundaries, it was a tumultuous time.
Eventually we became used to the curtains, taking extra precautions to keep the doors locked lest a wary eye might behold the sight of our naked bodices basking in dollar store conditioner.
But let's not fool ourselves people. I have become increasingly aware that the transparent shower curtains in my bathroom have become steadily less and less transparent. Now it is caked is a light film of dark material obscuring the forms behind it.
Frankly, I blame Norm, the Italian of our apartment.
Still, I was okay with it. Until yesterday, when the knob on our toilet broke.
Apparently a little piece of plastic snapped on the inside of the toilet, rendering the handle useless unless you reach your hand in to pull the lever up manually.
This means that every time nature calls I have to reach my arm behind the toilet into cold, oh so very cold, water up to my elbow and grasp for the piece of plastic needed to trigger a satisfying flush.
Again, much like the shower curtains, I have already become accustomed to this practice.
Much in the same way I have grown accustomed to the broken shower handle that has permanently made my showers scalding hot, and the broken towel rack steadily falling off the wall.
Long story short, I need to fix my bathroom.
Oh, and about that Lego spider robot. I spent two hours the other night flipping everything in the apartment upside down while I looked for my keys. Just when I was about to declare my night as doomed I found them, underneath the robot, in it's claws.