have i told you how cramped it is here? because it’s getting ridiculous. Madam’s Mister seems to spend the night every night now. i mean, i’d say he lives here, but technically he does have his own place. i know because Madam had me go with him the other day to help grab some of his clothes.

and holy hell—his flat? absolute pigsty. dirty clothes everywhere. crusty dishes. garbage just… existing. i don’t know how anyone lives like that. it smelled like gym socks and bad decisions.

he told me i could come back sometime and clean it up “on my own time.” sure. let me pencil that in between scrubbing his soccer mud out of Madam’s rugs and trying not to throw up doing his laundry.

so yeah—loaded all his nasty, biohazard-grade laundry into the car, drove him back to Madam’s, and now i’m at the public wash again.

and no way am i bringing this stuff inside Madam’s home until it’s been washed. maybe twice. maybe torched and replaced.

pray for me.