Egotistic Labor

I must admit, the most recent reaction to my blog has been swelling my already engorged ego. It causes a pleasant rush of endorphins to have nine comments (four of which are fake) in reply to my paltry thoughts. Surely, I say to myself, I am an important person.

Today I spent the majority of my time steam cleaning. I cleaned the carpets of my college's Columbia Hall, the local residence for female students. I will not lie, it is weird to be in their place of residence, normally locked down with key, pass card, and numberpad to prevent the atrocious and overbearing attacks of male pubescent boys. The spring air brings not aromatic wisps of love, it seems, but rape hangs heavy. Except for between 12 and 8 every other Sunday, where the gates are temporarily opened to the unsuspecting masses and where chemistry and biology are closely monitored. Yet here I am, walking freely amongst the skeletons and tumbleweed of an otherwise unoccupied citadel of death.

So the process of steam cleaning, as it was explained to me, is "not hard". He certainly wasn't lying. What he forgot to mention, however, was that this process not only involves what is, essentially, a wet vacuum, but that it inadvertently also sucks my soul. The high pitched whine of the two, count them, two vacuum engines is combined with the dull low roar of the spray pump. This enveloping sonority reaches through my oral canal to effectively disassemble my humanity. Beyond that, the motion of this banausic task has become a 50's film projector, complete with scarred and tearing frames, looping endlessly the seven seconds it takes to steam clean one three foot line of blue carpet. This archaic visual aid plays from behind my eyes, the clatter of the reels drumming through my skull, flashing its nightmare onto the back of my eyelids.

I must get to bed, I have to steam clean some more carpet tomorrow.

By the way, my thesaurus has become my new Bible. I read it more often.