The grownup version of “the floor is lava” is “it appears I’ve gotten dressed to go out too soon and now I have to somehow exist in my home for 12 whole minutes without touching anything covered in pet hair”
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Sticky lint rollers. If I were the pragmatic sort, I’d roller myself in the garage before leaving, y’know, where there’s a trash can. Instead, I have an art installation of furry paper wads in my passenger floorboard.
My mom has solved this by only owning black dogs. Or would have, if fate didn't keep giving her white dogs she didn't ask for, alongside the black dogs.
A variation: You’re attending a memorial service, so you buy all new dark clothing and keep everything in the bag so you can put it on in the bathroom when you get there.
My field jacket is amazing. It has real pockets and a hood to protect me from rain. It also grows pet hair even when I stash it away from my pets. And however often I brush it, the hair grows back. I'm beginning to think of tasing myself to rid myself of this mysterious pet hair.
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The amount of money I spend on lint rollers. . .