One wouldn�t think that a person could wash his face nineteen times in one hour and still hold onto his skin, but then again, one could be dead fucking wrong, couldn�t one? He turned off the faucet and toweled his face. He walked into the next room, sat down on the couch, and turned on the television with intent to forget. But he could feel it the moment the water left his face, the second he stepped away from the sink. Filth was what it was. Dirt. Stench. Six billion people in the world. Maybe seven for all he knew. Millions in his city alone, occupying his space, pervading his molecules with an aura of stink.
On the television, the news: a prostitute dead in an alley downtown. A toddler shot in a gang-related incident. Arson suspected in a row-house fire that broke out earlier today. Now back to John in the studio. And on the campaign trail�
Get up and turn off the television on a commercial break, before they can sell you a brand new sport utility vehicle, whiter teeth, and a presidential candidate�paid for by friends of that candidate, who very likely turn out to be the same people selling you the SUV and the teeth. These aren�t your friends, he thinks. These are the same people shedding the germs that clog your pores. These people are dirt-producing dirt. In this day and age, a man asking for purity is asking for far too much.
He goes back to the sink.
Jessica R Pomerantz
