A frustrated penchant for drowning

I live in a great house. It is huge and reasonably well-heated. My roommates are great: they share alcoholic beverages and we rarely get in each other's way. The rent is reasonable. The hot-water heater is huge, allowing me to take long-ass showers. But...

The house is a typical American, utilitarian structure, and for some reason it doesn't have a bathtub anywhere on the premises. On days like today, though, a bath never leaves one's thoughts. It looks bloody cold outside, and the wind is still trying to push its way in. What better way to spend one's time than blogging from a bathtub filled with scalding hot water and maybe bubbles?

Also, on a brighter note, the absence of a bathtub denies me at least two ways of offing myself. How am I going to drown myself after swallowing a bunch of sleeping pills, Kosinski style? And I will not even mention the sheer impossibility of a quiet check-out after slicing my wrists open, peacefully staring at a not-too-clean ceiling from the womblike embrace of lukewarm water...Damn What is one to do in circumstances like these?

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