Spree Killer

Anniversary - Alcoholics Anonymous
Anniversary - Ball Point Pen
Birthday - Judy Garland (singer/actress)
Birthday - Maurice Sendak (author)
Day of Portugal (Portugal)

 

Wow.

 

I just made a dangerous discovery.

 

See, ever since I moved into this apartment, the windowsill in my bedroom has been, shall we say, under par. Actually, no; we shall not say that. We shall say that the windowsill in my bedroom has been a WALL OF MOLD. Hairy black treacherous mold, blocking up the natural breezes and sporing up my bedroom.

 

This is a strange new phenomenon for me. I come from Salt Lake City, where growing mold is like trying to grow it on Mars. Sure, unlike Mars, in Utah you can do it if you set out some bread or cheese—provided it doesn’t harden into a rock first—but it’s not easy to sprout mold or mildew on laundry left in the machine, or on your bathroom ceiling what the hell.  I have very little experience with mold, except for one thing I am pretty sure of: that I am allergic to it.

 

Thus, when there is mold on the windowsill, I will panic.  I wound up leaving it alone, because I was afraid if I tried to kill it I’d just make it angry, and it would crawl up my nose at night and make my face cave in.* But this week is Moving Out Week, when I have to clean up the place, and I have to face the mold.

 

So I bought some kind of cleaning solution or other at the store—something something WITH BLEACH—and last night while I was puttering around putting off writing my paper, it occurred to me that even if I didn’t wipe off the mold, I could always spritz the bleach stuff on it and get a head start on it.

 

Whoa.

 

Five minutes later I came back and saw that most of the mold had not only died; it had also vanished.  Holy shit. This bleach didn’t just kill the mold—it fucking vaporized it.

 

I think it was right about then that a crazed look came into my eye.

 

I don’t remember quite what happened after that, but I do have a vague memory of standing in the bathroom, firing Something With Bleach at the mold-encrusted ceiling, and possibly shouting “HAHAHAHA DIE MOTHERFUCKER!” as I blasted that shit down to a subatomic level.  When I came to the bathroom smelled like a hastily-cleaned-up crime scene, both my window frames were sparklingly clean, and the kitchen was shrinking from me in marked terror.  I had to open the windows—much easier now—and stick my head out the front door to get rid of the bleach fumes.

 

I think I’ve tapped into something primitive and possibly even sinister here.  Suddenly I begin to understand that unholy smile the 1950s housewife always seems to have when she’s happily doing her housework.  This is no innocent satisfaction at a home well-kept.  This is psychotic mass murder.

 

I have looked into the abyss, my friends.  And it is sparklingly free of mold.

 

 

*It could happen! I saw it on CSI, which never lies!