Have I mentioned that, after four, damp, musty years toiling away in the dewy bowels of the crabbyshack, I've finally ventured above ground and moved my office upstairs to the spare bedroom. Have I also mentioned that about four years ago, the Old Lady made this exact suggestion, but for some reason it has taken me four fucking years to pull my dumbass head out of my dumbass rectum to realize that it was a brilliant fucking idea?
I guess I'm just the kinda guy who needs to stew over things for awhile before taking action. The first year I was thinking, "I can't move all this crap upstairs into that tiny bedroom." The second year, was more like, "Hey, it's not too bad down here -- it's nice and cool in the summer, and nice and cool in the winter, and my skin never dries out because of all the moss and lichens growing on it." In year three, I thought, "Gee... my breathing's getting kinda shallow and my toes are numb... maybe I'll just put my head down for a bit and rest it off... so sleepy..." And, of course, this past year has basically been, "I'M DYING! I'M DYING!!!!"
But now I'm upstairs. With a window. And sunlight. And air. And I don't have to wear snowpants at my desk. Or fingerless gloves. And I'm less wheeze-y. And my gills have even closed up. Here's my former and current view:
Sure, I miss my friends: Frankie Furnace, Johnny Sump-Pump, the Spider family, and Toxie the Toxic Mold Patch, but I do get to visit them whenever I have to descend back down into the crevasse to record music. Which should be soon, as I'm about to take on another freelance gig to help stanch the seeping financial wound just inflicted upon me by the I-fucking-R-S. The bastards.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go stand in a darkened closet for awhile, as the burning rays of the sun are starting to take a toll on my pink eyes and my wrinkled, unpigmented naked mole rat skin.