It began with a mouldy jacket. I reached into my wardrobe to pull out my black leather jacket and it was coated with a fine layer of fluff. I like fluffy jackets, but not the kind that grow from spores, so I wiped it off.
Back in February, I invested in some DampRid, scattering containers of the stuff all over the apartment. Every couple of weeks, I’d pour fresh crystals into the chambers and return to find them transformed into gross, slimy soup. When the April rains arrived, the mould spores partied and multiplied in my closet; the DampRid sweated in the funk. I could no longer fight the force of La Niña alone. I needed to call in the big guns and get dry.
Two weeks later, I am completely obsessed. Each morning, I move the machine to a different room and leave it to work its magic. Each evening, I excitedly check the tank and thrill at all the liquid that has been siphoned from my home. The dehumidifier gives me a daily sense of fulfilment. No matter what I have achieved, or how I have failed, that full tank of water feels like victory and progress. It is as rewarding as squeezing pimples, without the scarring or pus.
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