It's not anti-perspirant
The deodorant can't find a home. Atop my dresser, it sits too far out of reach. Access denied by growing piles of clothes, bags both plastic and synthetic, and notebooks with my half-written witticisms. Next to the keyboard it crowds me and blocks my view of important but untouched tiny pewter dining chairs, Hobart Smith CDs, Winne-the-Pooh kid-sized playing cards, toaster instructions, and notes, so many notes with scribbles that even I can barely read. 906 Gravois? 113.03? arrive? Leave? 8:30? It's hard to tell. Harder still with that big red square-ish cylinder creeping too close to the keyboard, invading my typing space. The bathroom, home of toothpaste, well-meaning but oft-ignored dental floss, and contact cases seems like a possible solution. Permanent housing in that neighborhood can be scarce. The sink was bare, but slowly toiletries have begun to accumulate in the flanks. Deodorant could fit. It's a logical place, a decent neighborhood, close to good schools and naked flesh. The underarms would not be much of a commute from the sink. Deodorant rests in its new real estate while showers occur. The wetness of cleaned hands, the reach for the deodorant in its new home, the slippery red missile in the hands of man, Mountain Rush turned skydiver, high endurance turned swimmer, *plop*. The deodorant cannot be a houseboat. Not in the shower. NOT in the toilet. Back to the dresser, buddy. Out of reach is better than in the bowl.