That Word

Hey so I had mentioned in a previous post my writing assignment based off of my non-favorite word, the F word. So here is the final copy of that story. Enjoy!

That Word

Cold showers suck. A non-stop give and take with water temperature. A half turn with the cold knob and a three-second turn with the hot.
Perfect.
The water pressure fades to a drizzle barely besting a water fountain.
Darn neighbor must’ve flushed.
The morning goose bumps diminish as water streaks over my body. Steam builds a light haze on the shower window, and I fight the child-like urge to doodle with my fingers.
Reaching for the loofah, my fingers become captive by strands of rabid, dark hair. Luckily, they aren’t curly.
Ugh, my freaking roommate sheds like dang Sasquatch.
I scrub each sector and toned muscle, spending an extra minute or two on the Man-ganistan region. A vital step. The water temperature plunges.
Shoot! I’m in a hurry! I thought I had the knob angles down to a science.
I speed up the shower checklist, lunging for the shampoo bottle. The loofah lather on my hands causes the bottle to slip from my grip, up and over the shower door. I coincidentally leave a Rose Dawson, Titanic-like handprint on the steamed glass while I rush to retrieve the Pert Plus. The settled goose bumps awaken.
The lack of a bath mat-covered floor sends my callused feet zipping from underneath me and I slam onto the filthy tile. The previous rabid hairs were the least of my worries. It has become an infestation.
God…dangit!! I don’t have motherfriggin’ time for this!
I leap back into the lack-luster warmth of the shower to rescrub myself. New body hair swirls down the drain. Re-working the Pert Plus with both hands, I luckily form a nice lather into my manly locks. Rinse and repeat has no time. A tiny water droplet carrying a deadly dose of suds falls down my face, rests on the corner of my eye and explodes on my cornea.
Ouch! Oh, my God! Piece of s…crap!
I bury my face in the cotton-polyester blend of the towel like a child seeking comfort in their mother’s bosom. The sting refuses to settle. It’s become a taunting irritation, dancing on my eyeball. I decide to “man-up” and try a procedure taught in high school Chemistry, eyewash.
I take a deep breath, hold open my eyelids and creep my face under the nozzle. It’s no wonder we didn’t physically try it in high school. It increases the irritating eye dance to Irish jig level.
Ugh! Motherf…ugh!
I stumble out of the shower door, and stub my pinky toe on the trashcan. My face is steaming with frustration. All the morning shower episodes flood my mind at once. I can’t stop my body from releasing the one word I hate.
F@%&!

There you have it. What did you think? Hahaha I know it's kinda sketch, but I tried to be creative.