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higher!
    The morning shower is sacred to me—one ritual that knows no prejudice. 8 to 80, blind, crippled, or crazy, doesn’t everyone
     get a couple minutes of steamy solitude? Silky beads of water rolling down the old back. Comfort. A few minutes of peace before
     it’s time to go out into the day and realize that those days of yesteryear, doing the Huck Finn thing down at the local sewer-steam,
     were the best days. I mean shower—the point at which life falls into a coma. My head says, “Womb, asshole! Say WOMB!” But
     I’m not gonna pretend to remember what it was like in the womb. I might still FEEL it, but it isn’t a thing I can TELL you
     about. The shower is quiet compared to the sounds I hear every day, like logs on the fire that burns inside my head, raging,
     sometimes a whisper, but always burning. Sometimes I think if I had an X ray of my brain, all it would show is a few goldfish
     flopping around on a cold, cold floor, yelling something about fast food, sayingsomething about swimming again. I just want to know what cartoon did it to me. I mean how did it happen? Was it something
     I ate as a kid, or what? Too many Lucky Charms, with all those marshmallows making me restless? I’m not bitter about it. I
     just wanna know. It’s the age-old and completely laughable question, “What’s it all about?” that I seem to be dancing around.
     Or was I dancing around a windy bathroom in London? Is it all about my dick? Does everything have to make me feel nervous,
     stupid, or horny? I had a boss who used to say, “It’s all about your dick, Jimi. Unless you’re a queer, and then, it’s all
     about my dick.” The shower is just so crucial to all of this. To all of these things that amaze and paralyze THE ME.
    The bathroom, meanwhile, is a mess. I think basically somebody got so cold that they tried to start a fire and now all that’s
     left is a huge black hole with a ring around it. There isn’t even a tub left, it’s just a ring. And the worst part? The worst
     part is that there isn’t even a standard shower. Just this thing Londoners call a “Sha-bath,” or maybe it’s that the process
     is called “Sha-bathing.” I don’t know. I don’t think the thing even deserves its own name. Let’s face it, it’s a nozzle with
     a hose at the end of it, and that’s it! A cheap rubber hose with a fuckin’ lousy little nozzle at the end of it. No one should
     feel like they’re doing something that merits its own term when they hold this hose and beg for a decent spray from its puny
     prudish mouth. I don’t think theLimeys have the guts to come clean on this one! They can’t admit that, even though they’ve had a country for centuries, they
     never managed to come up with a decent shower. It’s not even usable! How’s a guy supposed to rinse, and lather, and relax,
     and benefit from the pulsating stream, and masturbate, all at the same time? It’s too much work! I can’t be bothered with
     all this HAND-HELD stuff! I’m trying to get a little relief, a little bit of a rush before I go out to face the sharks, and
     I gotta hold my own shower head. It just doesn’t make sense. It might sound primitive, even ridiculous, but it’s me and the
     facts are the facts! It’s just too much to do at once! I need that thing up on a hook. Christ, they figured out how to make
     lamps, what’s so difficult about a shower? Imagine trying to spank the old monkey under the covers, while flipping through
     a porn holding a lightbulb. That shit’d be dangerous! Why’s the shower so different?
    Anyways, so I’m laying in this filthy bathtub. I got this stupid nozzle in my hand, which is starting to cramp up on me, and
     I’m pulling hard ‘cause I got a strong wind at my back. The ambiance alone has my cock purple and huffing, not to mention
     the watering it’s getting. Like it’s a posy I’m wishing over. Coaxing it to grow, begging it to become something it isn’t.
     I almost wish one of