The Battle With Dust.

*cough cough cough cough* Of course I have to be the nicest person and take the worst place for myself. *cough cough cough* Yes, I’ll take the attic for the time being. *coughbluahg cufhg* No, no, it’s fine. The dust settles. Things fall apart, everything is fine. It’s only for a while. The sun will explode some day.

I bought a vacuum, an air purifying device, I cleaned everything and I still feel in Chernobyl. It’s fine, it’s fine. It builds character. Some day I’ll tell people, oh yes, I survived months in a wrecking ship, or well, an attic. It was so dusty you had to vacuum with spoons. But in the end it got clean. I cleaned it with my lungs.

You wouldn’t find dust bunnies here, I think I saw a dust racoon lurking around. And then you open the doors. It has doors to another realm on the walls, an ugly place where the insulation is falling down, and there’s no ghosts here because they would die.

Look at this beautiful squirrel! All happy and nice.

I want to complain, maybe, formally about my situation. I will raise an inquire about animal cruelty. I am overfed and underwalked, and there’s dust. Too much dust.