On Soap

Soap is always gone.

I woke up this morning and trodded meaninglessly to the bathroom to find the listlessly devastating lack of soap ever apparent. How can one counteract the hydrophobia of oil without the intricate chemical composition of alkaline soap. Great leaping leopard skins on death row! It is to my content that I managed to stave of such thoughts of "ending it all" at my inability to wash given an already initiated process in which I was now finding myself under the quality of 'wet.'

So, as I mentioned, and as is evident by writing this, the lack of soap (at least this time) was not enough of an impetus to suicide. I merely allotted a half-hearted scrub and moved on. It was not pleasant - I felt somehow dirty for this meek attempt at cleanliness. I've concluded after the fact that I had in fact done nothing for my overall godliness in this monumental shower experience. More importantly, I do not smell of overtly feminine sudsy remnant. This is the great offense.

Which... returns me to my original point. The soap is always gone. This is of course figuratively - I do in fact, upon recollection, see a time where there was soap. Yet, this wonderful time of the past seems to be a verisimilitude and thereby unappreciated. Only the traumatic discovery of an empty bottle ingrains itself in my memory. Hence, I have a string of these discoveries that makes it indeed seem that every time postwith I find myself incapable of washing it is quite the normal occurrence. Logically though, this is impossible (ratio of size of bottle to amount used per day).

I hate the fact that my shower experience is defined by a negative. Therefore, I have made it my goal (and I encourage my reader as well) to take great notice of the soap the following morning. I must appreciate it for the fantastically smelling and o' so enlightening, energizing substance it truly is.

I love you soap.