The beautiful General in all of his infinite wisdom decided to clean the mold off the walls in my studio, without telling me. This was for several reasons. Well, I like mold and I like the patterns it makes - the walls are green and the mold is silverish and I like all living things and mold as a superior species in particular. I would have not allowed him to kill it had he asked, even if he argued it could probably kill me. Another thing is that he also either killed or scared away all the spiders above my work desk and I keep those on a first name basis.
So, the point of the story is, he didn't tell me. I spend too much time with my work manager, whose principle is: Just tell me it was you and what you did and how you will fix it and I will not be upset. So I come home and - if you don't turn on the lights, the studio corner is a fairly dim lit place - I don't notice anything particularly off for a while. My hands start to itch, which I assume is the result of the shit I'm handling in the dollar store. I had to pick up glass yesterday, fully aware you're never supposed to do that. I notice some of the screen-lit surfaces are kind of sparkly stained, which I dismiss as maybe since I was drinking fresh Coke, that sprayed around a bit. And my mouse is not running as smooth as I am used to it on its pad. Finally, when I try to cut a glossy carton, I see it's actually quite filmed over. In fact .... everything is filmed over. And my palms have gone from itchy to purple and swollen in patches, burning AF.
Anyone's first instinct is always, of course, to phone their lover and yell what the fuck did they do to your desk. But he calmed me it's okay, it wasn't a pesticide, it was just bleach. My studio is now a tiny graveyard of myriad blameless toxic souls. Some of my pocket change I kept on the desk has corroded. Most of the rest was easily wiped off. Had to change the bedding, tho. No matter, the days are so lovely, bright and warm, taking a naked nap after some smoochy, in a freshly made bed was just what it took for me to stop yelling at G.
Not to mention if your hands are really burning, you don't think so much about your burning/hurting feet. Silver lining. Silverish.
poor mold. :(
So, the point of the story is, he didn't tell me. I spend too much time with my work manager, whose principle is: Just tell me it was you and what you did and how you will fix it and I will not be upset. So I come home and - if you don't turn on the lights, the studio corner is a fairly dim lit place - I don't notice anything particularly off for a while. My hands start to itch, which I assume is the result of the shit I'm handling in the dollar store. I had to pick up glass yesterday, fully aware you're never supposed to do that. I notice some of the screen-lit surfaces are kind of sparkly stained, which I dismiss as maybe since I was drinking fresh Coke, that sprayed around a bit. And my mouse is not running as smooth as I am used to it on its pad. Finally, when I try to cut a glossy carton, I see it's actually quite filmed over. In fact .... everything is filmed over. And my palms have gone from itchy to purple and swollen in patches, burning AF.
Anyone's first instinct is always, of course, to phone their lover and yell what the fuck did they do to your desk. But he calmed me it's okay, it wasn't a pesticide, it was just bleach. My studio is now a tiny graveyard of myriad blameless toxic souls. Some of my pocket change I kept on the desk has corroded. Most of the rest was easily wiped off. Had to change the bedding, tho. No matter, the days are so lovely, bright and warm, taking a naked nap after some smoochy, in a freshly made bed was just what it took for me to stop yelling at G.
Not to mention if your hands are really burning, you don't think so much about your burning/hurting feet. Silver lining. Silverish.
poor mold. :(
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