*shakes mighty fist* In this prolonged round of the dreaded game, "What's that smell?"→[More:]

Winner: not me.

I am finishing the last load of anything that could possibly retain any odor despite the fact that liberal sniffing yielded nothing outside the range of April fresh to slightly dusty.
It's maddening, to the point where I have several times wondered if I were hallucinating as a penance for my reaction on hearing Marc Maron talk about the same damn thing on a podcast.

He's lying there just wondering where the hell it's coming from for untold time until he takes everything out including the drapes, and I'm thinking, "Really? Good god, man--" Cut to me not long after wondering what the hell--

I have played this game many a time with horrific discoveries. There was no mystery vermin at the end of this journey, surreptitious snakes hiding out in the laundry, or recurrent kitty illness I'm aware of, just me giving up and doing 12 hours of laundry with a washer and dryer that get sketchier and less reliable with every unending, ineffective cycle.

But this is a game that never has any winners.

And that's the dryer.