Can't... clean... anymore... send help. Got a massive amount done, but--you've heard of black lung? I now have dustbunny lung. Also, no Omen for me. I'm afraid the room (pictured in icon, as the swirling vortex that it is) has broken my spirit, but it was a Very Yelly Cleaningmas earlier this morning:
While sorting a box of papers: "Stupid goddamn... why do I have 68 printouts of one story? There weren't even twenty people in the whole workshop! Fuck's sake..."
Upon being summoned by a family member: "Sorry, I'm in the closet right NARRRRRGH! OW! DAMMIT HELL! FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!"
While carrying a heavy box of magazines: "Ahhhhhh shit, son-of-fuck piece of shit AHHHH HELP HELP FALLING NOT GOOD!"
On the arrival of an intruder: "NO NO NO CAT NO!"
While hurling assorted pairs of footwear toward the back of the closet: "SHOES! FUCKSON GODDAMN SHOES!"
On finding a pair of earrings I had mislaid a long, long time ago: "Fuck yeah! That's right! THAT'S RIGHT! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME DOWN!"
So now I've had a late lunch and a long shower and I'm going to lie down for a little while and try not to die of a dust clot. Maybe I'll lie down on a bed of loot I found in my room, like a dragon--it's not as good as the time I found perfume, truffles and incense, but this time I did find the aforesaid earrings, three smallish but half-full bottles of New Year's booze (two vodka, one rum), a box of crayons (64), three pairs of tweezers, two pairs of nail clippers, a bag of rubber bands, a folding fan, two skeins of multicolor yarn, and Batman Begins on DVD.