I've been feeling extraordinarily anxious today. I have the sneaking suspicion that everything I've worked on is going to crumble and I'll lose my job and have no money and die as an adult living at home before I even get a chance. The majority of this feeling is completely unfounded (okay, okay... yesterday I forgot to put the clothes in the dryer at work, but reasonably that's not grounds to get fired on, unless your main job description is to put clothes in a dryer) but I still can't stop thinking that I totally fucked up and this is it. I'll never get paid again.

Plus I was unpacking some of my boxes in my parents' garage (lol) and found all my adorable holiday hand towels and sets and after I stopped wailing on the ground about how I'm an adult living at home, I freaked out and threw the whole thing in the wash. You wanna know why? Ball towels.

You know when you go to like, anyone’s house ever and they have little towels on a rack by the sink or one big towel kinda hanging on the door that I guess the guests are supposed to assume is clean enough to just quickly dry off on after a standard post-pee rinse?

Anytime I see a towel hanging in a bathroom, I have one thought: Balls. Towels in bathrooms have probably at some point touched someone’s balls, and when you wash your hands and then dry them with someone else’s ball germs, you’re basically like, “I want to bring my own bags to the grocery store so I don’t waste paper but I’m going to go to the Whole Foods on the other side of town in my SUV and sprinkle the road behind me with my collection of dead seals.”

And then you’re lying to yourself and the world. You’re playing like you’re clean, but you’ve got ball hands. And not even your ball hands, you know? You’ve got someone else’s ball hands and you’re spreading that around town and touching people at functions and stuff.

I’ve never had balls to rub on anything at other people’s homes, but I know I cross a lot of other boundaries in a shameless fashion. Some people do sick things in private or semi-private. I had a boyfriend who would regularly -- like, every single time -- get pee on the floor. Couldn't get all his pee in the toilet. Would just dribble pee on the floor / my bath mats. There’s a chance that I could invest in an attractive set of hand towels that compliment the bathroom’s jungle theme, but then there’s also a chance that some pervert I know may roll up and just rest his sack on them because that’s how he entertains himself while he’s having downtime in the shitter. At my house? Please. I have a dog. We’re adults. I don’t think so. Get your ball sauce off my stuff.

Sure, you can argue that ball germs are important to building up our immune systems. It might be the accidental exposure to these ball germs that have made it possible for so many of my friends and I to survive without health insurance for so long. But I’d almost rather lick a subway platform once or twice a month for six months than run around my own parties with some friend of a friend’s testicle germs all over my gorgeous mitts.

Basically what I’m saying is, once I buy the house that I've been meaning to buy, if you come to my house, you can use the bathroom at the gas station down the street and/or I’ll rip you off a single paper towel in the kitchen before I send you into my towel-free bathroom. I mean, sometimes I just use my jeans. It’s Southern California. Moist denim dries in three seconds flat and I don’t think my Levi's have even been exposed to sack.

I also might reconsider my feelings about all of this when my anxiety subsides, but I doubt it. It just makes too much sense.