Dear Diary,

I nearly asphyxiated from bathroom air freshener. Sometimes (always) the smokers from upstairs tromp downstairs for their morning puff, then drag themselves to the downstairs bathroom to address a secondary and more primal bodily urge. To dilute the smokey stench which trails her everywhere, The Smokestress gassed the bathroom with air freshener. So strong was the fragrance it left a taste on my tongue, delivered via overwhelmed and protesting nostrils. It may have also been absorbed directly through the pores of my skin. I fainted twice and when I came to, witnessed three horses cantering on the ceiling. One was purple.

An interesting way to die. Cause of death: air freshener. As I lay on the floor watching the three but-one-of-them-purple horses cantering across the ceiling and leaving behind them trails of musical notes and pictures of sea shells, I  heard my eulogy being read: The air freshener did her in. She always loved irony. When sensation returned to my fingers and strength filled my legs like a drunkard fills a water basin, I opened the door and watched the air (which had either turned polka dots or my vision had been corrupted) blow out of the room, my sanity along with it. I swore then to find The Smokestress, and like a valiant knight, give her a firm talking to about using the upstairs bathroom. The purple horse will be grateful.