my comb-washing addiction has consumed me whole.
I've spent countless hours in this damp, sterile room, surrounded by the gentle hum of the washing machine, the soft glow of the LED lights, and the faint scent of soap residue.
It's not just a hobby, it's a lifestyle. A never-ending cycle of rinse and spin, rinse and spin.
I've lost count of how many hairballs I've washed, how many tangled knots, how many stray hairs I've plucked from the depths of the drain.
But still, I return, day after day, to this wondrous, maddening, sublime ritual.
For in the quiet hours before dawn, when the world outside is still and grey, I find my solace in the soothing thrum of the machine, the gentle lapping of the water, and the soft whisper of the bristles against my skin.
So here I'll stay, lost in this vortex of suds and rinse, where time and space are but a distant memory, and the only reality is the gentle, relentless flow of the comb-wash.
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