settlers of catan
I vacuumed my room. It took everything in me. I think about the cat and the dust and the dander in the air.
It disgusts me.
I got a cpap machine. The thought the cat and the dust and the dander getting into that disgusts me.
The cat and the dust and the dander feel like an ancient force of nature that I can’t win against.
Cleaning man. I don’t know why it feels so fucking impossible but it does some days. Some days I’d rather be punched in the face than to pick up the clothes off the floor of my room and put them in a laundry hamper.
What am I saying somedays, it’s most days. Instead of doing laundry or cleaning or tidying up I’ll just leave the house, find someone to socialize with, go on some random adventure, do something novel.
But all of that is really to avoid what I least want to do. Which is the laundry, the dishes, the vacuuming, and the dusting.
I wish I resented these things less. It’s probably in my control to resent them less.
I wonder where it came from? The first time I felt some type of way about… housework? Maintenance? The rote, the routine.
It reminds of this meme…
(Insert meme)
Or this one…
(Insert meme)
Or this funny anecdote I first heard from a roommate I had in university and more recently on a table cloth at a Knick knack/christmasy store…
(Insert story)
Yeah. I guess I’m not the only one who feels that way about it.
Damn. Can’t find the memes now. They described the feeling pretty well.
I’m content for now. I vacuumed floor to ceiling the entire room so to speak. Reduced a lot of dust and dander (and cat hair). Borrowed the air purifier with HEPA filter from my parents room. Closed the door and am letting that run.
Maybe that can defend against the onslaught at least for today.
I’m exhausted now.
I played settlers of catan for the second or third time in my life yesterday. It was very exciting. It made me sweat.
My cousin’s friends died this month. He was there. He didn’t want to talk about it.
One of them I knew. I had a small construction company one summer in highschool that stripped concrete forms off basement foundations and footings and stacked the wood and the forms up for the next job site.
My cousin worked with me. It was hard work. My cousin brought the friend that died to work for a couple jobs. I was 15 or 16. He was 17 or 18. His friend was 18 or 19.
His friend tripped on the job site and broke his wrist on the first or second day.
I went to the hospital with him and filled out his WCB.
I remember being flabbergasted because in the waiting room he told me he had broken his wrist a few months ago and cut off his cast with scissors a few weeks before.
I didn’t know that was something someone could do.
I reported that in the WCB paperwork.
He was really friendly and didn’t come after me for WCB claims or anything which I guess I was relieved at.
He was also the first guy my/my cousins age I met who had a kid. The first guy I met who had a record for unpaid parking tickets.
I don’t think I realized it then but I realized it later. He was the first clear example in my life of people having different opportunities in life.
I don’t even know if that’s a fair thing for me to say. But that’s what he’s represented to me for most of my life. The first time being faced with the fact that some peoples lives are just tougher based on who there parents are, what there circumstances are like.
Not everyone gets an even shake, some get less.
I wonder what happened to those other guys from that summer?
What a crazy summer that was. Started really drinking coffee that summer.
Waking up at 4-5am to go pick up my cousins or my brothers friend. Triple triples at Tim Hortons, down to double doubles by the end of the summer.
There was another guy. He was writing a science fiction book. I wonder if he finished?
There was another crew of guys we worked with at the beginning. I can’t remember the exact situation but one guys dad was a plumber, some years made ~$100/hr. The other, I can’t remember, he had glasses and was smart. Those two main guys were the leaders. I liked those guys.
Then there was… a guy who had a tattoo of a woman’s legs on his armpit that looked like his armpit hair was the vagina area. It was funny but kind of crazy.
I remember him and I working in a secluded area one time and this cage of forms silently tipped over and almost crushed him. We looked at each other like, “oh fuck, you almost died” and went back to work.
Maybe that was the summer before.
Memory is funny like that. Memories are coming and going more and more these days.
And when I talk to my peers there memories seem to be different. Or at least deviated.
I wonder what that means.
It’s just something I’ve noticed.
Thanks for reading.