The mop and bucket have come out. Chunka-chinka-swish.
It's time for night jobs here.
My conversation with friends is disturbingly interrupted now
because Pinesol is up my nose.
My face wrangles all up.
My nose is atwitch. Expressions change bemusedly.
"What's the matter? What's the big deal?" ask my friends.
"I've got to go now," I tell them, "because Pinesol is up my nose."
"Whaaa?" says one friend.
"It's just Pinesol, not a big deal," says the other.
They clearly don't get it, though both are well-meaning.
See my senses are hypersensitive, so my vibrissae are disgustingly attacked by attached aroma
because Pinesol is up my nose.
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