Sanding drywall mud makes me want to kill someone just to watch them die.
If, in a blind, helpless rage caused by sanding drywall mud, I were to kill someone just to watch them die, I would have a really hard time choosing between a life in filthy, squalid solitary confinement with lots of rats versus life on a drywall-sanding chain gang.
I can't stand the opressive face mask, which seems to filter out all potentially fresh air yet let in wisps of powdery contamination. I can't stand the drying effect on my skin--my eyelids papery and painful, my entire body raw like the end of your nose after a two-week head cold. I can't stand the white, plastery turds of powder that stick in the corners of my eyes. I can't stand the fact that no vacuum cleaner ever made can clean it all up. I know I will find more of it...somewhere.
I denounce powdered drywall mud as a middle-school health ed teacher denounces other white powders. Poison! Poison! Just once, and it will be the ruination of everything you cherish in this world.
I think I'm going to buy one of those thingies that connects a sander to a Shop Vac. But I know in my heart it won't make it better.
Oh, did I mention we're finishing the upstairs?