DUST (& Other Excitements)

One thing I have noticed across minimalist blog posts is the oft repeated assertion that if you have less stuff to lift and awkwardly clean around/under when you're cleaning your disgusting house filled with dust and dead dreams of being the kooky female sixth member of One Direction, then cleaning takes a whole lot less time. And it's true. It's surprising how much time simply not having to lift various objects can save you.

I became somewhat fixated on this after coming home from my holiday to Iceland last month and discovering my bookshelves had a decorative layer of dust waiting for me at home. Dust, as you may know, is made when furniture is lonely and exudes its loneliness in a small sand-like form. Of course DUST actually stands for Don't Underestimate the Sentience of Tables, but we now use the acronym to refer to the loneliness sand of all different types of furniture and household objects.

In response to this dust discovery, I felt a bit closed in and not very homely, but that may have been due to overexposure to the strongest wind I have ever experienced above Gullfoss waterfall (it almost literally blew me away). As is natural to me I then thought about dust for approx. 48 hours and then read a Wikipedia page on a type of vent because I became concerned about my lack of vent-based knowledge (this is what adulthood is about, kids, and when you get here you are going to love it).

The minimalist approach to dust is a sensible one, and I too would like to minimise my dusting and cleaning efforts so that I can spend more time on embarrassingly miming Fifth Harmony songs and also giving someone the beautiful gift of a cringe attack when they walk in on me. It's long been evident that I hate lifting things, so I am eager to eliminate any sources of me having to use my hands for anything other than typing inane short stories about Simon Cowell being outsmarted by a group of clever hedgehogs with electric guitars and nose piercings.