Well, here we are at the start of another afternoon, though it has been afternoon for more than a length of time that is equivalent to half of an hour of time, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s the start; this is where it starts and this is where I’m saying it starts, and so… yeah. This is where it starts. Deal with it.

I am tired. I am quite tired, and I hope that means I sleep tonight. I hope it means that I drift off into a deep sleep and dream of things that are not, and I hope it means that the sleep leads top a new and improved version of myself, but that too would take some time. It would take a lot of work, and work is what I’m meant to be doing at this present juncture in time.

There is cleaning that needs to happen, and there is a lot of it and I’m not doing it right now. I have protested. I have refused. I will, however, be doing it shortly. I will be getting out the old elbow grease as they say, and I will get into it all and help and do what I must in order to help and… well, you get the idea.

Cleaning… whoever invented the need to clean was clearly a mean bean. I’m not a fan and it is a loathsome task. It is an unenviable one, as they say. It is a heinous blight upon that which is considered a pristine and amazing world of exploration, and it requires far more effort than one can ever expend in an ever-smoothing universe. It’s not great, let me tell you.

Those people who say they derive pleasure from such cruelty? How do they even live with themselves? Is this what true malice looks like? Only they can tell, for their secrets are kept back behind a great wall of putrid toxins, and I dare not attempt to pass through it. Who is to say what will, and what will not after I do so?

So here I stand (or rather, sit) at the end of this bit of writing, and I wonder if there truly is such thing as a god, or a higher being, and I want to tell them that what they have done is unjust. No one chooses this lifestyle, and no one chooses a task this arduous. It is one borne from the soul of the tortured in order to inflict even more pain than we are already forced to endure in a landscape of uncaring. It’s not something anyone should have to do.

We cannot fight against the spread of cleaning, and it remains a malady for which there is no true cure; there is only temporary prevention, and let me tell you, that’s not something I could ever say is right and fair. Nor could I say it is fair and right, but it must be done, so I’ll clean.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:41:28

Silly bit of fun coming from this bit of writing.

Written at home.