"Oh shower scum, why must you provoke my wrath?"

Did I mention I hate cleaning? Well, I do. Anyone's house that's perfect at all times really needs to get a life in my opinion. The only exception to this is if it's perfect only because they're never home to mess it up.

Yesterday I left my protagonist hard-pedaling her way straight into the mouth of danger and all I feel like doing is getting at the next chapter. Instead I'm diligently hosing down my abode in my hasmat suit, occasionally screaming "Stacked dead actors" (see playlist--foo fighters) or some such into the mic -- I mean toilet brush.

To those who ask, "But don't you feel better now?" I'll give the same reply as when I quit smoking -- a very cranky, "No." But like quitting smoking, once the harrowing process is behind me (and I'm back behind the keyboard, feverishly clacking away), at least it will be in the rearview mirror where it belongs.