Upon returning home from a long day at work, I decided I would use some of my remaining abundance of energy to finish painting my bedroom walls which would require me to do something that was quite out of my comfort zone. My youthful, naive, numinous spirit of gaiety was, as I thought at times, omnipotent accept in this one place: the attic. I progress up the ladder into this chthonian dungeon above and with each step on this rusted, dusted, molded-orange ladder, I heard the dying screech of a metal rung. This treacherous ascending, journey leads me into the abyss darker than the concept of black itself. I settle myself in this utterly eerie environment and I am greeted by the whisper of death which was actually just the air conditioning unit turning on.

I quickly forgot about how badly my bedroom needed painting and reverted to my basic survival instincts of the adrenaline rushing through me that left no crevice in my body untouched and told me to book it. At my personal nadir, at the zenith of my fear, I flee from this hell above known as the attic. The state I currently reside in felt as if Phobos had engulfed me. This state quickly escalates into something more dastardly, which is projectile vomiting. I stumble like a drunkard to the bathroom as quickly as possible. My urge to vomit again increased due to the purulent, obnoxious, arrogant scent of my toilet and my previous vomit. The pure, porcelain white toilet was quickly turned into a canvas of disaster that portrayed the epitome of filth originating from the hearth of my bowels. My previously tediously designed bathroom looked as if Jackson Pollock decided to use dingy browns, molded greens, and the chunky texture of the remains of my unrecognizable lunch to create some masterpiece.

After my episode in the bathroom, my idea of painting my bedroom has vanished. After momentarily having an internal schism if I should just sleep or eat, my desire to eat won due to my immense vomiting kicking me in the gut and gifted me with hunger. I stumble to the kitchen like a lunatic. Along with the tan colored walls, grainy textures of the granite counter, and the succulent centered on the island, I am reminded of the Dust Bowl because my kitchen has no food and has been deserted. Each second that passes by that I do not eat, I can feel the spirit of death that occupied itself in my attic approaching me. In some a moment of hysteria of that of a stereotypical deranged woman, I lounge toward the sink, grab the translucent, orange-scented dish soap, and squeeze half of the bottle into my mouth. I am disappointed that the flavor did not meet the expectations that its aroma presented. My taste buds initially rejected this sharp, bitter, metallic stabbing flavor. The flavor then transitioned into some mad dancing that stomped onto my taste buds. I crash on the ground of the kitchen and accidentally open a cabinet to reveal some peanut butter, jelly, bread, and ramen noodles. I prepare these ingredients in their respective fashion, watch some TV, check my wallet for the card to my local exorcist and give him a call, and fall into a deep, deep sleep on my couch and Death just decided to come back another day far, far in the future.