Free I'm Judging You by Luvvie Ajayi Page B

is, you middle-class, no-excuse-having hobo. That is the embodiment of your current state of filth, and you have got to get your shit together. This state of affairs means your dead skin is ready to fall off your body because you haven’t washed. It is hanging on for dear life. Yes. You are harboring skin that is deceased and ready to be buried. Ew.

    3. When you go to the bathroom and you catch a whiff of something unpleasant
    Sometimes, we’ve all found ourselves in this predicament: times of heartbreak, deep depression, or being a writer. SHIT HAPPENS. But then we drag ourselves into the bathroom, ashamed that we’ve let ourselves rot from the outside, and we handle the situation. We wash like we were made to do so; we wash like we’re going to be graded on it. We wash like Idris Elba called and said he’s coming over and he’s hungry but you don’t need to cook ( Heeeyyy now!). We emerge, having exfoliated layers of dirt, grime, and skin that we were meant to have shed three showers ago, feeling refreshed and unashamed. And hoping that the person who walked into our bathroom and asked if a rat died will never have reason to ask that question again. You shouldn’t want your humble abode to reek of jock strap and jock itch.
    There are still people who go to the bathroom without washing their hands. Some of these people work in restaurants we frequent, because why else would those “Employees Must Wash Hands” signs exist everywhere? It means people need reminders to wash their hands before handling other people’s food and after they’ve handled nature’s calling. I MEAN, COME ON! You literally just wiped your nethers. Your hands came in close proximity to the places where urine and poo come out. And you just exit the bathroom like nothing happened, like your levels of hand bacteria didn’t just skyrocket? No! Not like this, beloved. Take the twenty (again, a low standard) seconds to cleanse your hands before leaving.
    When my day is over and I’m about to change into my pajamas, I always wash my hands. I give it that rub-your-palms-together-for-one-minute-straight-and-squeeze routine, and I am always grossed out by how brown the water is. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve washed my hands that day (every time I go to the bathroom), I always have to ask myself if I freelance as a mechanic and spent five hours working under someone’s hood. WHY IS IT SO DIRTY? Because we are walking dust bunnies.
    This is also why women who refuse to wash their bras regularly need to be sat down and read their bill of personal rights. There are women who admit to only washing their bras once a year. WHO ARE YOU MONSTERS? RAISE YOUR HANDS SO I CAN SHAME YOU. I’m not talking about that fancy lace bra that you break out on your monthly date night. You know the one that you can only wear with black underwear because no store sells boyshorts that exact shade of aubergine? I’m not talking about that one. It only stays on for an hour and a half before the lace starts cutting into your sides and it gets removed (preferably by someone else). Your special lace bra is still looking, smelling, and feeling brand-new, so I can see why you wouldn’t wash it often, I guess.
    I’m talking about your favorite bra that looks fantastic under all your shirts, and you find yourself in at least once a week (sometimes twice). That bra you should be washing regularly. Why do I have to say this? You might be wondering, too. The answer is because of the aforementioned grown women who admit to only washing their bras once a year. I tell no lies. This is why I have to say this. This is why I judge. Just because you can’t see the dirt doesn’t mean it’s not there . We can’t see gravity, but here it is, holding us down like the ride-or-die partner of life. In what world does it make sense to go 365 days before washing any undergarment that has been worn? How is