Coachella awoke with a ringing in his ears, a sort of eeeeeee that floated in the back of his head, reverberating across the rear surface of his skull. Google told him it was tinnitus, and after further research he found that there was no cure. All the websites only addressed preventing it, and there wasn’t much on properly treating it. After a few minutes of mindlessly attempting the scattered home remedies, Coach admitted defeat and rose from his bed. Weaving through the clothes and various paraphernalia that littered his carpeted floor, a cartoon criminal tiptoeing over red beams of light, he made it to the bathroom. Coachella had gotten into the habit of brushing his teeth and urinating in the shower, a practice that he justified for the time it saved, but he actually did it for the wonderful sense of authority it gave him. Something about it just made him feel like the goddamn king of the world. But today, the paste and piss had floated above the shower floor, meshing and mixing around his feet. He halfsubmerged his foot into the waterpiss paste and attempted to push the concoction into the drain. The drain was one of those fancy square shaped ones, the type you see in 5 star hotels, the type where the water first flows in little creases in the ground before reaching the pipes underneath. An aesthetic purpose, most likely, it would be very un-5-star-like to allow patrons to see the innards openings of the water system. After all, the water system is only one step before the sewers, and hotel owners surely don’t want their well paying customers contemplating excrement in their morning routine. There was no such luxury in Coach’s bathroom, however, as his mind, still pervaded by that awful ringing, leapt to all sorts of unsanitary thoughts as he stood in a puddle of his own urine. The swishing and swashing and sliding did nothing to diminish the rising water level, and Coach imagined himself looking rather foolish, performing his little dance number. And so, he continued his shower, trying his best to ignore the mixture slowly approaching his ankles. When squeezing his facial moisturizer tube, its cuckolded contents burst out violently, splattering across his hand and into the water below. Coachella cursed. The lady at the counter told him to use only a tiny dab. The moisturizer wasn’t cheap, and the wasted product was unsalvageable, already combined with the rising concoction at his knees, the droplets sinking and dispersing through the mixture, splitting and separating with a certain weight just a bit too heavy, like diagrams of mitosis depicted on ancient projectors in first year chemistry classes. The water was now at his waist, and Coach thought it was about time to get out. As he grasped the door handle, however, he was suddenly reminded of the new bathroom rug set he had just purchased. He bought it at Beds, Baths and Beyond a month or two ago, but only recently remembered to place them in their appropriate positions. It prevents slippage, apparently. Opening the door would surely compromise his pristine fabrics, soaking them in this godawful liquid that was now rapidly reaching chest height. He tried to turn the water source off, but found the faucet handle to be jammed. He came across the same problem yesterday, and the day before, actually, a situation that he was only able to rectify after several gruelling minutes of knob jiggling. Today was the day he was going out to get it fixed, or call a plumber, or perhaps have a closer look at the issue, but by now, the water was already at his mouth, and Coach struggled to keep the foul mixture out of his own innards opening. A muddled collection of words bubbled up to the surface, and Coachella drowned in the shower. The cubicle sides convexed outwards from the pressure and water spilled out from the seams, onto the fine rug below.