Welcome to the filth party. Come on in; the water’s great and the standards are low.
The high-school norms of deriding the stinky kids are long gone; hence, I’m no longer self-consciously sniffing and perpetually peppering myself with body spray and binaca, forever duping myself into believing that if I just smelled slightly better all of the ladies in my class would want to touch my penis.
Today, I’ve concluded that any odors, funks, or general muskiness does not matter and, now, I live a charmed life, exuding supreme confidence despite my unkempt and unwashed physique. I’ve truly matured or regressed, depending on your perspective.
I’m not going to lie to you—it was easy. Really, once I had a sufficient catalyst it was absolute cake. Now, catalysts can be simple, like maybe you’re broke or irresponsible and your water’s turned off, or, maybe, your tub’s coated with a pube carpet, or perhaps your roommate just dumped off some steamy damage and you’re not interested in visiting Ground Zero anytime soon. Whatever it is, embrace your excuse. For me it was as easy as thinking, “No, I don’t need to shower; I just made this big sandwich and I’m in a not-walking-up-stairs-kinda mood today.” That’s how simple it was to begin my enfilthment and my journey.
Later that day, with both my sandwich and Sinbad marathon finished, it was time to head out. Walking to the pregame, I was anxious, anticipating ridicule for my now-festering apathetic grunge. Yet, upon entering, I found the house was already filled with smells, namely bottom-shelf vodka and hair gel. It was absolutely wonderful. My secret was safe; there was no way my un-showered self could have been detected in that structure that was already reeking of overt desperation.
At the bar that night it was the same thing, only here my grit and grime was overpowered by fat-boy-dancing sweat and girl tears. I had a revelation. I didn’t need to shower; the world was filled with enough gross already that it could almost always cover up my nastiness. I was a human fart, but Planet Earth was my more-than-sufficient dampener.
After that fateful first day I was off the cleanliness wagon completely. The streak of dirty days extended and my immune system grew stronger, now having to fend for itself without its old ally, soap. My laundry days were pushed back, as worn clothes became fine for my unwashed body to wear. General expectations for me were dropped; no longer were people bothering me for advice, help, or if I want to go to the gym. Not showering had been a slippery slope, but it had a soft landing into diminished standards and unadulterated sloth.
Sure, nowadays I’m not completely off bathing and, actually, I don’t think I ever will be—it’s not at all like raisins, Applebee’s, or friendships with the vigilantly politically-correct. No doubt, I continue to see daily showers as exclusively for the pampered, the active, and the unconfident; however, I have been know to spoil myself and dabble on the occasions when I’ve sweat through an entire comforter, run out of body FeBreeze, or when toilet paper simply isn’t enough. Still, from here on out, I’ll always be #TeamDirty.