Like hiding that you masturbate.

I wasn't surprised when the beer didn't do it.
It hadn't worked quite right in five
or six years, depending on your mode
of damage assessment and logistics.

At least the shower was warm this time.
A spider two inches in diameter
tried its hardest to cling to the wet tile corner.

The hiccups, or -coughs, or however the hell
decided to hit me hard mid-shampoo.
I felt like a mouse in those cartoons
that they don't make anymore, the good ones.
The first one hit me, made me laugh.
The second one made me grab my chest.
The third one rocked me off my feet.
I hit my head on the way down
like it had a chance of missing.

When I came to my eyes opened
already fixed upon the wall.
The spider was gone.
Respect those who quietly succumb to the inevitable
without an audience.

I knew I wasn't dreaming or dead
because the race still disgusted me.
Any evidence of the fall had been washed
down the drain which was good since I'm bad
with the sight of my own blood
unless it's in size-10 font.

There was a gash in my scalp
that made me grateful to have thick hair.
Less questions. They never ask the right ones anyway.

Water was still warm.
Soap still stung eyes.
I didn't need to pinch myself.
I wouldn't have, regardless.

No one greeted my forehead
with a blackjack when I released the steam
into the hallway after a lazy drying session.
The cowardice of people astounded me again
and I hiccupped or hiccoughed or whatever the hell it is
my way up here to commit another dull night to memory.

That spider had lucked out.

But honestly
I never fell
and neither will you.
Get over it.