I’m intrigued.

Initially.

A feeling similar to the pleasantry of squeegeeing your windows.

It’s contradictory to everything you know.

Cleaning shouldn’t be fun… but the squeegee in action is just so fucking… mesmerizing.

As I said, I’m intrigued.

Initially.

I’m intrigued because I just poured liquid chemical down the shower drain and not only has the clog been fixed instantly, there appears to be a vapor rising out from it like a fucking Volcano.

I’m mesmerized.

HOW
FUCKING
COOL

Not quite.

Apparently the chemical melt of months build up of raver hair smells quite unpleasant.

That’s the first time I’ve lied to you.

I can’t even settle on a word to describe this stench. It’s still a tossup between repulsive, putrid and repugnant.

I literally fucking RUN.

My eyes blood shot and watering.

Profusely coughing.

And you know how right before you throw up you do that little spit action?

The place you run to spit and proceed onward I just ran the fuck out of.

But this is going the fuck down.

I need to spit.

I run into my room.

Look around.

Carpet or pants?

Pants.

I spit on what turns out to be Joe Stone’s pants and throw up in my mouth.

Despite the closing of the bathroom door, this horrific aroma somehow manages to traverse the entire upstairs and downstairs of my home.

I mean, it’s fucking bad dude.

This all happened around 1pm. I’ve seemingly blasted an entire can of Lysol, and to no prevail.

It’s 5:30pm. The bathroom door is still shut. The bathroom light is still on. The entire house still fucking smells.