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The dishes in the drying rack do not exist. Socially, I mean. They are placed in the rack and then forgotten.

In most households, they would be remembered as soon as a new set of dishes needed to be dried, or one of them was needed for a new recipe. In my house, however, their cessation of existence is literal. I put them in the drying rack and they no longer exist. Nor, in fact, does the drying rack. Just look at it from the right angle and you will notice Nothing.

I would be running out of dishes rapidly, except for the fact that new dishes keep appearing in my cabinets every week. Each of which looks suspiciously familiar, like a dish I've seen somewhere before, only I can't exactly put my finger on it. How odd.

I sometimes throw garbage into the drying rack, just to get rid of it in an environmentally-friendly way. On a related note, sometimes my neighbor discovers that someone completely has filled his garbage can before he can even put in one bag. he can't figure out how this happens, because he keeps the can in the garage. How odd.

I didn't exactly design the drying rack this way. I mean, of all the things to enchant, a drying rack for dishes has to be the most banal. Who gives a toss about a drying rack? Which is why I used it for practice. For the first time. Ever.

I'd say it turned out well, if not necessarily safe or useful. Word of advice: Don't touch the drying rack. Don't put anything in the drying rack. Don't get near the drying rack. Any object or body part of yours that touches the drying rack can only be saved if you concentrate on it and will it into existence. You have to keep telling yourself, "my hands exist, my hands exist, these are my hands, I have hands", or whatever object is in danger. If you take your eyes off of it even for a moment, you will forget about it and it will be gone.

Speaking of which, look at these neat hands I have. Nice and thin and long, just the way I like. They're not exactly my hands. I'm not sure who they belong to. Nor do I remember what happened to my old hands. But hey, I've got these now, so...

...

I don't know how many floors my house has. It looks like three from the outside, but you should know me better by now.

I used to be fairly certain it was fifty, twenty-four above the ground floor and twenty-five below. Not that it was ever easy to count. I never bothered. Mistress Omega told me it was fifty. Enough that my summonings could be as loud as I wanted them to be, which is not very loud, but ever since the wildfire that destroyed the entire west coast she hasn't allowed me to do any summoning with my cell phone. Actually, she doesn't want me to do any summoning for the foreseeable future. 

ANYWAY. Ever since this lady named Mary came to my door, burst in and rushed upstairs, my house has had infinite stories above me. I tried counting them once. I had to stop at 500 because I was too tired to go on. I decided that, as far as I was concerned, the house was infinitely tall. A regular tower of Babel. Not that I feel I could ever reach Heaven this way. Nor do I feel that I deserve it. My business is with people from the opposite direction, after all.

Sometimes I climb as high as I dare, and I hear Mary's voice echoing through the empty halls. She tells me an infinite set of empty halls is better than what she ran from. She also says that she has power here. I tired to add furniture to one of the halls. It was on the roof the next day. All she ever lets me add is stained glass.

 I wonder if I can negotiate with her.

I managed to get her sister to agree to let me decorate the sub-basements. I figure, what good is a sub-basment if you can't add a few rec rooms, some exercise equipment, a few supercomputers with blinking lights all over, a couple dungeons for the troublemakers, you know, normal basement stuff. I've even got a permanent summoning circle, down on the lowest level I dare descend to. It starts getting hotter after that. Mostly because that far underground is radioactive. I never stay down there for long.

Mary's sister...I never learned her name. She refuses to tell. She's much more shy than Mary, which is probably why she chose the basement.  So now I have an infinite basement. Maybe It goes all the way down to Hell.

Dude. My house could be the link between Heaven and Hell. This is awesome.

As long as neither of them decide to kick me out and take the place over.

I should probably ask Mistress Omega if I'm allowed to summon again. Also, come to think of it, you might not want to visit my house. If you drive to my place and you hear weird screams and see light pouring out of every window, don't try to save me. Just run.

...

If you visit my house, don't open any door that isn't already open, and don't close any open door. You have absolutely no idea where the doors will lead. Hell, sometimes even I'm not sure. This is why the bathroom has a bead curtain instead of a door. Bead curtains don't count. I think.

This is also why I removed most of the doors, beacause i was getting tired of having to chant a spell every time I wanted my bedroom door to lead into the hallway instead of the Pentagon. Do you have any idea how angry they get when unauthorized people walk into the middle of their top-secret meetings? They HATE it when civilians see the big fancy electronic board. Also, there was still an aura of magic around me, so I fried the thing's circuitry. That was expensive, and time-consuming, because it took me a while to find chalk to draw a summoning circle and break out of jail

...

I wonder. Big houses are useful for holding big families. Should I find a spouse and fill my house with kids? Have them running all up and down the infinite stairs, throwing report cards into the drying rack, downloading unsafe files onto the supercomputer, calling Mary mean names...you know, I don't think this place is right for a kid.

It needs more furniture and a big friendly dog

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