Cheerios are evil. They are the bane of my existence. They get everywhere. They resist being vacuumed. They make a sickening crunching sound when you step on them. They smell bad. They get everywhere.
They are Fiona’s favorite snack. They have been since she was less than a year old. Between 11 and 14 months they were pretty much all she ate. She ate so many Cheerios that her poop smelled like Cheerios. So, now, to me, Cheerios smell like poop.
I cleaned my house yesterday. I vacuumed. I vacuumed inside my couch. There were more Cheerios than you can imagine. I shoved it away from the wall, and there were more Cheerios behind it. I shoved it back to the wall and more Cheerios fell out of it.
I hate Cheerios.
I kept cleaning. I scrubbed and swept and tidied and organized and vacuumed and washed and folded and cleaned everything. By the end of the day, my house was spotless. There wasn’t a Cheerio anywhere, except their rightful place in their box in the cupboard.
Ah! Beautiful. A clean house is a form of blissful peace.
I came downstairs this morning to make my coffee and you know what I stepped on? That’s right, a Cheerio. Right in the middle of my living room floor.
I hate Cheerios. They’re out to get me.