"We got no jobs, we got no food. . . OUR PETS HEADS ARE FALLING OFF!"
Yes, friends. I'm talking about the fugliest place in my house. I finally just, snapped.
I'm taking matters into my own hands. I've strapped on a set, and I've manned up.
What am I talking about? The eyesore of my entire abode. The armpit of my house:
Wait. Wait. Nuhnuhnuh-no no. Back up here. Backup backup backup (beep beep beep-- backup noise).
Allow me to correct myself. The armpit of my house is my carpet. The stairs aren't even that good. My stairs are the crotch.
With questionable hygiene.
And something must be done about this crotch.
I won't even show them to you. Make me.
Arrrr. Fine-nuh. Promise me you'll still like me after. Swear.
As I followed my tazmanian devil around the house, attempting to snap a non-smeary picture on a dark day of her Halloween costume, I got this one:
and I swore it would never see the light of day, the stairs are that bad.
Well, all that carpet is gone now. Twas a full afternoon of tearing, ripping, pulling, crowbarring, finger blisters, sweeping, gagging, and so forth.
There's no going back now, man. But would I want to?? I ASK YOU?
Can I ask for a candelight vigil? 'Cause I've plunged into work, and I'm not lovin' it so far.
I think I need a hug.