not funny

I hate painting ceilings. Oh, I’ve got a pole all right, to stick my roller on, and it’s really not a tricky job in the technical sense, but all that looking up leaves me feeling in need of chiropractic help. I don’t blame Michelangelo at all for being agonized--I just wonder where the ecstasy came in.

I can’t update my blog because I don’t feel funny. At all. It’s not that I’m not as surrounded by the absurd as usual--I most certainly am. Why just this morning the circuit that the coffee maker’s plugged into decided, completely arbitrarily, to take a coffee break. I tracked it down pronto--it was the switch between the one that handles all our auxiliary oil radiators and the one that sends every clock-radio in the house into flashing seizures. But I could discern no reason for its lapse of work ethic. It’s possible that the ghost who hangs out by the basement stair when Jeff toots his saxophone got tired of waiting for him to get home from exercise class and threw the switch in protest.