It is now four o’clock in the morning. The carpet guy, who has an Australian accent and swears like the devil with a hot poker in his foot, just left. He ripped up all the carpet, vacuumed up the rather astonishing quantity of water beneath it, and departed. The place is well and truly trashed, though surprisingly the only things that were destroyed (other than the carpet) were a 25-pound box of kitty litter and a twelve-pack of toilet paper. I have gone from a plethora of toilet paper to a paucity of toilet paper in a snap of the fingers.
Twenty-five pounds of kitty litter is more kitty litter than you think. Especially when it’s burst out of a soggy cardboard box onto the kitchen floor, where it’s then absorbed approximately sixteen metric tons (or two-thirds of a metric fuckton) of water.
I passed “utterly exhausted” about two hours ago and I am now in the Land of Delirium beyond, where pixies cavort in unsavory ways with the shade of Henry Kissinger.
The cat is no longer amused.