It’s hard to express how I feel in words.
I cleaned the bathroom today. My apartment, in case you don’t know, is a wonderful, breezy affair with air particles wafting and charging through beams of natural light that cascade through the windows. And then take that apartment and put it inside a tomb and that’s my apartment.
Things with caustic fumes tend to stick around, causing a phenomena known as “hotboxing” which was a term coined in the Renaissance (fair) when some guys shut themselves in a room and got real stoned. It is a misnomer that this room was a box, however, because it was fairly octagonal.
As these fumes mix and mingle, you start to really feel your brain gasp away into the night, leaving you with decreased ability to stand on a ladder and continue cleaning but increased desire to do so.
My brain is dying and I feel great, which leads me to believe that there might be something to this whole autoerotic asphyxiation deal.
You know what? I’ll just try it in pictures, which are worth exactly a thousand of words.
Before Gettin’ Fumed:
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After Fumigation:
