Everyone get high and write some fucking prose with me. A commentary

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Everyone get high and write some fucking prose with me. A commentary on the moment my girlfriend came downstairs from the shower.

She rockets into the room clad in towels and a single pair of glasses. One towel on her head wrapped in a sort of half-face mask the other around her waist. Of course, the slit up the side was a wonderful addition to the regalia of the Shower-sworn warriors - her skill in combat lacked quite considerably. Her weapon of choice poised over head, I paused to take in the moment of pure existential peace I was in. Completely at ease - I had accepted my imposing doom wholly and paused to stare at the beauty that was her recently showered, glimmering breasts. They stood like kings on ever-lasting vigil majestic and stalwart. If god were real, this would be considered his Mona Lisa. A moment perfectly casted. The perfect souls to model the emotion. A girl, scantily clad preparing to scalp the very picture of punk skater stoner boy with a toilet brush (which probably is covered with herpes and would actually explain a lot of things). And it was modeled to the point where no director, no cinematographer, no paint artiste extraordinaire could replicate it if they had eternity. The very soul of Ironic Elegance.