Particularly if a comforter full of their feathers explodes in a dryer. It's like someone shot a fucking bird in my basement. As if the dust bunnies needed the competition...
UPDATE:
I would like to thank my friend C for saying that things like this only happen to me. I was beginning to suspect that and am relieved it's not residual pot-paranoia, but instead, the far graver reality of my life.
FYI, I've scooped up as many feathers as my patience allowed and am ignoring the rest. Seeing as this happened in my basement, I'm not so concerned. They will give the cat something to do after pooping, or in the event that we get a mouse, will help him establish a cozy home. One day I will shop-vac the bejezus out of the basement, but not today. I'm busy drinking.
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