Every time I walk by, it calls to me. Every time I pour a glass of crystal Brita liquid, I can feel it pulsating between the faux Mexican Tiles that surround it. Even when I am nestled safely in the blossoming cocoon of my electrically cool blue sheets, I can feel it's presence lurking on the other side of the wall. And then the bathroom wall. Two walls.
I long to know what it looked like before the years of mindless misuse and debauchery. But I can't. Because I wasn't there.
Were you there?
I dare say you were not there.
Once every few months, when the memory of my last attempt has faded into the crevices of my dark, dark brain cavities, I set out on my mission. I am a soldier, and this dirt, this grime, this grout is my nemesis. It is mighty. It is everywhere. I assemble my weapons, my battle gear, and set out to free the white binder--that was once so happy--free of its hateful captor. I am flailing, catapulting every ounce of energy and adrenaline I possess out my right hand and into my chosen scrubbing appendage. Minutes pass, then hours. The bleach and formaldehyde have clouded my perception of reality. And then, just then, when I am about to expire due to a brutal combination of exhaustion and harsh chemical fumes, I begin to cry.
It happens every time. I look down and the spot I have been working on for what seems like a lifetime (not my lifetime, maybe a small child's, or a fragile puppy's) looks the same hue as the spot next to it. Black, grey, black, it doesn't matter. It is dirty.
I need to find the right chemical. And my search will never cease. Until I do.
Mournfully,
H H hhhhhhhhhhhh
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