I hate basements. No, I freaking despise them. They terrify me. Ever since I was a kid, going into the basement causes my heart to race, my mouth to dry out, and my palms to sweat. You want a milkshake? Hand me ice cream and milk in a cup, and send me downstairs. I’ll shake that thing like a bad parent! And basements with an open staircase? Forget it!

Naturally, this has lead me to live in nothing but houses with the laundry room in, you got it, the basement. I think, on top of being a… what would you call it? Basement-phobic? On top of that, I’m a closet masochist. I swear.

Now, by calling it a phobia (even though there is no specific term for “fear of basements” that I can find), I have called it an irrational fear. Irrational, unfounded, in short, ridiculous. My friends all tell me, jokingly, that I’m mental. I’m screwed in the head. Totally paranoid.

Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoid or not, I wish to God I could reach the light switch by the furnace and find out what the hell is eating me before I die!

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