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It's Just that There's So Much to Do . . .
. . . and I'm supposed to be sleeping.
The seemingly interminable construction that occurs in any one of the backyards that adjoins my house at any given time has reached a pique of me getting ready to kill you.
The house cattycorner from me has apparently lent their metal grinder or metal saw or whatever it is to a demented Bohemian from one of the hip, gentrified areas of Hell. The loud, piercing, homicide-rage-inducing sound of carbide grinding away at steel is usually mercifully short, far-apart bursts of no more than a minute, presumably enough to cut a few selected bits of rebar or whatever. Today, the sound is continuing for fifteen minutes at a time, leading me to assume that someone is trying to sculpt a completely metal statue of themselves getting stabbed to death by me.
Things haven't been this bad in months. I'll be lucky to get any sleep at all, at this rate.
69°F.
The seemingly interminable construction that occurs in any one of the backyards that adjoins my house at any given time has reached a pique of me getting ready to kill you.
The house cattycorner from me has apparently lent their metal grinder or metal saw or whatever it is to a demented Bohemian from one of the hip, gentrified areas of Hell. The loud, piercing, homicide-rage-inducing sound of carbide grinding away at steel is usually mercifully short, far-apart bursts of no more than a minute, presumably enough to cut a few selected bits of rebar or whatever. Today, the sound is continuing for fifteen minutes at a time, leading me to assume that someone is trying to sculpt a completely metal statue of themselves getting stabbed to death by me.
Things haven't been this bad in months. I'll be lucky to get any sleep at all, at this rate.
69°F.