This is War Man, War

The other day whilst minding my own affairs, I came upon the lair (read: the bedroom) of the enemy. A godless horde of crawly bitey little insects (read:fleas).

I just snapped, and it’s really quite amazing how many options open up when you are having a bit of a nervous breakdown. I swore that I had indeed run out of places to appealingly place my possessions, and as such they were to remain in their present locations (read: the floor).

That was, until I had logically deducted the horde had indeed attacked. Sneaking in amongst my loving family dog, and perchance sneaking the rest of the way using my cat (who is incedentally not so loving).

Devious bastards they are.

To step back slightly, my home isn’t a mess by far. It’s a jumbled mishmash of art supplies, computer parts, tools for fixing the latter, and a few other things that are hard to place together in any logical or tangible sense.

Thrown into this already confusing cross section of crap is countless clothing care of both myself and my daughter (well, her clothing is rather neatly in organizers), toys (mine and kid’s), game systems (mine and kid’s), a fridge (yes, I do have a fridge in my room).

Now, at some point due to some complicated physics my room has shrunk. I am not entirely sure when this actually occurred, but it did at some point. Granted, precise measurements and the rest of the results of the scientific study do still need to come back, but I await those knowingly (they will confirm my suspicions, oh yes they will).

Moving along now, navigating carefully walking through my things, I happened to look down and to my horror there were the hellbeasts on my feet, 30 or so of the spawn of some succubus (read: my ex was somehow involved, those tests will be back next week, I expect them to confirm my ex indeed sent these legions).

I spent the rest of the day having what is called I believe, a ‘shit fit’ (scientific term) and cleaning every little nook that would be even remotely feasible. I believe the count for the amount of times I scrubbed the floor alone was roughly one for each of the hellbeasts (30 or so).

Yet, nothing more. Apparently, the little bastards were alone. I haven’t so much as seen a single other one. Now, I’m confused and waiting patiently for the attack.*

*Okay not so much, I had just come in from outside. My yard is overflowing with the things, happens every damned year. Sadly, that same logic wasn’t applied that day. (See: Shit Fit)