Cleaning.

Every so often I get the sudden urge to clean. I don't know why it is; in fact, it scares me somewhat. Most of my life I live in the most disgusting squalor, but then every-so-often I will just tidy and clean. Obviously this is short lived, and lasts for about 10 minutes before my bedroom is like Dresden all over again. Today I started cleaning my room, mainly because I've bought a new CD player and needed to clear enough space out of the dead bodies that line every surface of my bedroom to actually fit it in.

As I was picking up a dismembered limb that was stuck behind my shelves, I noticed a small hole in the carpet. Lifting the edges of the carpet up, I realised that this hole was not actually as small as I imagined; it was, in fact, 50 feet wide. Considering my options, I decided that I had nothing better to do, so I jumped down. At that point, it was official: I was on

A ADVENCHUH.

The hole was incredibly deep. Possibly 5 kilometres, a foot and a centiyard. Approximately. When I hit the bottom, I was confused and marginally aroused. The walls were dripping with god-knows-what and the air was punctuated with the sounds of kittens in the distance. Overjoyed, I ran and ran, trying to follow the incessant mewing, only to keep hitting dead ends. I was right fucked off at this point. My desire to hug some baby cats was so overwhelming I did a little cry from my eyes. I asked a portly gentleman for directions, but he only seemed to speak french, in a squeaky tone not unlike a moomin. Using my knowledge of year 7 french, I opened my slack gob and foghorned "JAVOODREY, UN PETIT LIASONS DANS LA MASON DE CAFE, POR FAVOREY?" He clearly understood what I was asking, as he pointed in the direction of a large green door. As I walked through the door, the mewing instantly stopped and was replaced with the sound of giraffes. Understanding that this room was obviously filled with giraffes and not kittens, I turned back and ran towards the frenchman, shouting in my broadest french accent. "LA ORDINATOR DANS LA RESISTANCE LE MORTE DE MANGER EINEN KATZE YOU CUNT", I honked, somewhat like a goose. But alas, the frenchman was no longer there! "That cunt", thought I, "he's given me shitty fucking directions and then fucked off. No wonder we conquered france and made them all live in the sea, the stupid fucking 'tard."

Giving up, I walked back in the direction I came from, hoping to be able to find a portal back to my desolate and yet quaint bedroom. I was starting to get bored of this place, and I craved the sweet embrace of my own room. At that point, I suddenly stopped. I had had an epiphany: I had never left my bedroom at all! That bastard Neil Buchanan! That stupid fucking cunt!

Paracetemol, my arse.