Sludge

Kenny showed me the pictures that he took of our house tonight. It was surreal.

Our couch is now laying sort of tilted up in the air, with part of one side resting on top of a lamp and an end table sitting on top of the other side of it.

Our refrigerator is crashed over in the middle of the kitchen—which should make getting it out of the house, full of the rotting food in it, especially fun. (Note to self--do NOT stock the freezer with chicken, steaks, ground beef, etc. during the height of hurricane season.) And yet the utility cart that was sitting next to the refrigerator is still standing upright—it even still has a watermelon sitting on top of it, although the watermelon is quite, um, fuzzy.

When Kenny showed me a picture of the bathtub, I didn’t know what it was until he told me. I've never seen anything quite like that before--or anything quite like the stuff that was in it. I shudder to think what, exactly, that stuff might be.

The pictures of the closet were interesting—my black leather jacket is now furry and a lovely, seafoam green color. All of Kenny's baseball caps had mold growing down from them in a straight line, like stalactites.

The official water line was just to the top of Emmeline’s crib mattress, which made me sad.

And the walls? I don't even know how to describe what they look like. Just ugly black mold growing everywhere, covering almost every inch.