I Am So Dirty

You know the kind of dirty that one can only achieve at the beach? You know, the sandy, sweaty, clammy, layered, baked-in, musky, caked-on dirty? The kind where you feel like you have to wash the washcloth afterward? And apologize to it?

Oh yeah. That dirty. It's awesome.

You know, the kind of dirty where you look in the mirror and say, "I should take a shower today. Totally. Today is the day." When you want to wash your keyboard and chair after defiling them? And when you do take a shower you take a moment of silence for the washcloth. I like to eulogize its spirit after I crush it.

"Oh, dear washcloth. You poor poor darling. I am so so sorry for destroying your dreams. I know your mother spoke of the amazing things you might become when you were nursing at her bosom. She spoke of noble rugs, to cushion the step of royalty. She talked of designer oxfords, lovingly dry cleaned with a the most delicate of touches? She never talked about this. She never told you you might be torn from her limb, dying and desiccating, strung out and bleached in the harshest of chemicals, twisted, tied, and turned into a lowly Ralph Lauren washcloth.

You couldn't even attain hand towel status. They have it so, so easy. You are forced to delve into the musky and neglected areas that have accumulated the worst kind of chaff. You are shamelessly paraded across ass crevasses and treasured yet filthy bits and pits. You poor, poor bastard. I am so, so sorry. Know that I mourn your spirit as I defile you. Know that it will get worse. There are others who will be making use of your splendor. They may or may not be even dirtier than I.

So, so sorry."

Please join me in a moment of silence. In the comments tell me the dirtiest you've ever been. What would you have said to the washcloth?