Fuck You, I'm a Robot

I'm not so sure. One of the most decadent and pretentious things I used to do during my senior year of college, when I had an apartment all to myself, was take two loooooooong-ass baths on Saturdays, when I didn't have to work or really study until the next day. The first would be in the morning, with a stack of newspapers that I'd pilfered from the student mailroom for me to read and a big carafe of coffee on the edge of the tub, and the second would be at night, with the stereo going full-blast (all my nearby neighbors were over seventy-five and stone deaf) and a jug of cheap Carlo Rossi wine on the floor. I discovered that, the more hyper you get with the former and the drunker you get with the latter, it's really cool to pour some of your drink of choice into the tub water and just sit there watching it swirl around the white porcelain for an hour or so. A mild mental orgasm, of sorts. At least that's what it seemed like at the time. I could have been wrong. World War III had just broken out that September and I had the mental stresses of final-credits roundup and an on-again/off-again/no wait, on again/damn it, off again girlfriend to contend with. Maybe I should have stuck to smoking dope with the art-student kids instead.