I bought it at the electronics market conveniently located five minutes from my apartment. It cost me less than five U.S. buckeroos and has probably increased my quality of living by a bagajililion. It heats up in about four minutes flat. While it may reach tempatures that are a little uncomfortable (and probably illegal in several countries), I love it like I love pain medication that makes me slightly queezy. But the lovely thing about it is that I don’t have to feel any guilt over the ruination of my liver or kidney functions.
My one problem is that I really want to know what is inside it. I have a Calvin and Hobbes kind of destructive fascination with discovering what lies beneath this flowery surface. When you hold the bottle hot, it feels like heaven. But when you hold the bottle cold, you think, “Hesus. Why is it so cold?” It’s an unearthly chill. I am both fascinated and disturbed by this.
The one thing that keeps me from opening this bottle is the knowing that I could possibly unleash some kind of unholy and slimy apocalypse for whatever may be in splashing range. Pray I don’t succumb to my childish instincts. More than a few of my possessions survival may depend upon this.
The Hot Water Bottle, a.k.a. the Potential Bringer of Destruction
