It falleth on the just and the unjust. Likewise, doth it fall on the printer and keyboard.
Midnight: the time when comes out all spirits of the dark and fearsome, and with them the leaks in the roof. Fortunately — it takes a natural disaster to make me label this fortunate — I was up late to ferry Michael back from work, and to hold forth on life for his school project. I was up, in fact, just late enough to see the water come on through. Like: drip. drip. drip.
Power off the computer et al and place a bowl? That just post pones the needful climbing and rubbing of dead reptiles for later, and later would be — when? Early in the morning before work? Next weekend? I mobilized the boy, and we ascended to the source of all the world’s waters, discovering cracks in the shingles as much by touch as by work light. The tar was cold and didn’t wish to spread or stick, except where my hands had warmed it. It was a very nice 90 minutes.
Actually, it was. Michael and I had a fair time up there. Not the timing I’d wish for (I’m feeling quite used up this morning), but the house was temporarily sealed pending better work with warm tar, and all is well.
But, Lord, my brain is twisted and inefficient when I’m this short on sleep. This mindset has already produced such gems as “Baby Got Back can be sung to the Smurf’s song,” and the baboon version of “Baby Got Back.”
(…when a girl comes in with a really hairy face and that red thang in your face you get SPRUNG….)
Oh. And I am, with the exception of 200 words, half way done with Scapegoat, and moving well.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry