I think back on the time, two days ago when I had never heard of you. The nice old clerk at the hardware store, who introduced us. I was taken in by your promise of super tuff-ness, the dreams of having a cat-hair free floor finish. I thought you would be like a young James Dean on steroids.
I'm not sure how your parents managed to mate. Clearly you are the product of an unholy liaison between a spider and some cheesecloth. And so sticky. so very very sticky.
You leave my hands so sticky it makes me want to scream. Not just like when I touch the side of my cocktail and get lemon-drop all over them, but like a toddler let loose in a maple syrup factory while double fisting pb&honey sandwiches. I hate you. I mean, sure, I love that you pick up the loose hair, dust, and sand from me sanding off the finish, but I can't get over the sticky-hand thing.
We're breaking up. it's not you, tack cloth. It's me. Its been hours since I touched you, and after five handwashings, I'm still sticky. Ok, maybe I'll use you for the final 2/3 of the floor. But I won't like it, and there may be violence.
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