Hold your breath.

I've grown accustomed to looking down at those small red blotches, strewn out in patterns across printed white toilet paper. It happens late at night. The series that occurs is redundant; it's always the same: time, arm, choice of words, stumble into the bathroom. Well, let me explain before you ponder about the chances that I've been struck with a case of stigmata or even worse (I won't go into those details in order to keep my taste and not ruin yours).

Around 5 am, I cross my right arm in a diagonal pace, from left cheekbone to right temple. What my skin feels is lukewarm and always sticky. "Shit," is the chosen word of around 5, when I stumble to my bathroom in complete darkness. Tired, grumpy, and well, utterly blind I paste a length of toilet paper salient in ways, a shoot of white, fluffy protection launching an attack at my face worthy a firefighters praise.

The worst part is waiting. Sitting on the bathroom floor, breathing through my mouth. Looking at my neighbor the toilet bowl. If I could hum a tune I would, but with the obvious tired and winded situation it would be unnecessary and rather sad. I don't ever remember what I think about. In fact, I don't even know if I actually think--either in time or out of it-- dreaming or not.

Maybe I've been sentenced to something. I don't know, like a 10 month serving of haphazard nosebleeds, set for the hour 5 in the am, no less than 3 out of the 7 days per week. Maybe, it's just coincidence, but it couldn't be.

Either way, I've gone rather far in disgusting many people in my little cafe of cyberspace banter. I hope you enjoy your night; maybe I'll see you at 5.