Stubbornly, hot water remains nice.

Oops, I gendered that.  Let me revise an earlier implication: if a woman spongebathed in the woods, I'd frown on it in exactly the same way I frown on this friend of mine.  I'll also be using the adjective 'unwoodspersonly' from here forward.

A week ago Friday, at 5:30 AM, the hot water heater in my home exploded, rousting me.  Generally, I strive to undertake everything with discipline: I move cautiously, deliberately, mindfully, thoughtfully, precisely and so on.  When I'm brought to consciousness by an explosion, though, I'm evidently not able to summon discipline.  I didn't think to put on rubber-soled shoes or hit the breaker before investigating.

That's the weird thing, to me: I would think, faced with what I was faced with, some deep species-memory would've caused me at least a little apprehension.  Dark.  Unfamiliar noise.  Get the flint spear, proceed carefully.

Nope, just waded in, barefoot, mostly naked.  Fortunately, I was thrown back a few feet, otherwise I would've been unconscious in an electrified puddle.  I don't remember recovering very well: the breaker was tripped, but I don't know if I did it, or if the surge did it.  For some reason, I'd put on clothes, too, only to get them soaked as I searched for the water supply valve to shut it off.

So, and needless to say, I was without hot water for a time.  That I don't mind, of course, but I live in a city, so some degree of hygiene is my responsibility to everyone who lives in the city with me.  Spongebathing in a city is fine, in my opinion.