There may be small brush fires.

I suppose, in theory, I should be upset that there is a teensy weensy possibility of, ooh, explosions due to my inability to function at my highest rate after being stuck on a ladder in a unventilated kitchen inhaling oil paint fumes for an hour. The finer points of exactly how spread out things need to be, well, they probably would have been comprehended by those neuron pathways that were killed halfway through the second cabinet.

I’m just guessing.

Also? It is COLD. And CLOUDY. And while I would normally love this, I want my shelves to DRY DAMMIT I HAVE A VERY LIMITED AMOUNT OF TIME HERE.

Oh. My head. It spins.

The thought of my fingernails bursting into flames makes me laugh, though.


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