#epsomsaltdiaries (Part 3)

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Taking a mid-afternoon bath is something that says a lot about me as a young professional these days. And the fact that I have to go back to working in the office from next Monday doesn’t really bode well with my habits and aspirations anymore.

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When they say “blessed be the fruit” ... what do they REALLY mean if they’re referring to a man? I mean, it’s one thing to bless women’s uterus (uteri?!), but do we really think balls deserve the same level of admiration and/or acknowledgement?

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2020 has already proved to be little too rocky for me.

You know what’s almost as rocky as 2020? This glass of gin I’m holding like a boujee dandy that I am. I’ve got only one little gulp and 20 more minutes left in the bath.

Clearly, I do love living on the edge.

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One should only scroll tinder before ticktok. Otherwise, even that tender social media bubble is too underwhelming to care for.

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While my beautiful cerulean sponge fizzled with soap, I couldn’t help but wonder: What is it in my brain that strives to be more like Patrick Bateman and less like Ron Swanson?

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“Get a grip on yourself”, yelled a shower head at me when I accidentally laugh-farted underwater while listening to a true crime podcast.

“Calm your titties”, I yelled back and thought about how Tom Felton didn’t age well.

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Also, how lucky am I that I wasn’t born in 16th century Georgia. I would have been captured and probably sold on Turkish market before I was even 12. I don’t really do well in captivity. Unless there’s a crippled health system, systemic racial inequality, police brutality, etc.

That probably explains why I’ve thrived in New York.

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If I could change my name to anything, it would definitely be Tybalt. Just so I could scrutinize every American who pronounced it [tæ•bolt]. Either that or Her Royal Highness, Princess Consuella BananaHammock, Duchess of Smellyton Catton.

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I’ve recently discovered that it’s not all so easy to squeeze yourself into a size S non-stretch boxers anymore. Especially for a young aristocrat who’s a little more than just a handsome devil with an ass that won’t quit.

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Every time a podcast host says something about its “patrons”, I think of all the missed connections with prospective sugar daddies.

Oh well... I’m sure American sugar daddies are made of corn syrup anyways. All dribbly and sloppy and... dull.

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At this point I don’t know why I’m even in this water, turning side to side, with a word “bellicose” stuck in my head. Try me, bitch!

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I did watch mr Murphy’s Politician. And I must say, not even Frank Underwood scared me as much as the sight of a toddler in Ben Platts arms.

Put. It. Down.

No.

We’re not buying it!

Put it down, NOW!

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Michael: “6 and 8 are the most unlucky, unholy numbers in yoga philosophy...”
Me (born on 8/6): dhanyavaad.