Last month, I was browsing the Lush shelves for a new bath bomb to elevate my bathing experience. I saw bombs with names like “Strawberries and Cream,” “Rose Butterfly,” and “Twilight” that boasted ingredients for “smaller eye bags” and “pinker nipples.”
But then I found a bomb with the word “Vance” scribbled crudely across its label. When I inquired about the bomb, the cashier said, “Enjoy a warm cinnamon aroma and unwind in the blood of your enemies.”
Fuck, she had me at cinnamon! I paid and raced home to try it out.
Once home, I filled my tub, dropped the bomb, and watched as the water turned a rich, syrupy red. While the water churned, I began hearing an echo of tortured voices.
“Help! My boner inverted!”
“My butthole is on fire! Put it out!”
“Oh, God! I’m Amy McGrath’s coffee bitch!”
After a moment or two, I squealed with delight upon realizing the distressed voices belonged to my long-time foes! They included:
- Vance Donahue, my 19-year-old pervert neighbor who tried to sleep with my mom on three separate occasions
- Katherine Durbin, who soaked all of my tampons in raspberry Svedka and punched them up her ass
- And Mitch McConnell, who fucking exists
I stepped into the water, which I quickly discovered wasn’t water at all! It was, just as the Lush associate promised, blood! And, not just blood, but the blood of my nemeses!! Bath time had just gotten personal, and I was thrilled.
As I luxuriated in the blood bath, cupping pools in my hands and letting them drench my face, I taunted my adversaries.
“Vance, I’m going to sleep with your dad and be your new mommy!”
“Katherine, I hope you have permanent colon burns, you ass chugger!”
“Mitch, I would use all three genie wishes to light you on fire!”
Oh how I laughed and laughed as I indulged myself in six gallons of pure gore siphoned from those who dared cross me! The bomb’s essence spun me into a state of complete revenge-fueled euphoria.
I couldn’t tell if the voices resulted from delirium or some sort of granola Lush witchcraft, but the mere thought of my rivals suffering so that I may relax had my tension melting into oblivion.
After a 30 minute soak, I drained the tub and dried off. I stood frozen for a moment, listening to the remaining blood gurgle down the drain. This bath bomb just served up revenge du jour, exfoliated the absolute Christ out of my entire body, and evened out my vaginal pH after I had been agonizingly yeasty for a decade; yet, I still felt a strange pang of guilt rising within my abdomen.
And then…I caught the scent of a familiar autumnal spice: cinnamon.
“Go fuck yourself, Mitch.”
I left the bathroom a redeemed woman with skin like fine satin.