{***to be read in a monotone voice w/out any pauses (periods excepted) for breath***}

I'm sore.  Painting our house interior all weekend (and I'm about ready to get painting some more today.  Took time off work -- to paint!).  It never ends: taping, cutting in, touching up, reaching with extended rollers impossibly high, climbing up and down the ladder, dripping paint everywhere, cleaning up the paint over and over that dripped everywhere even through drop cloths were laid out, uselessly; cleaning out brushes ad nauseum, cleaning out paint pans, opening paint cans, closing paint cans, getting unintentionally high off of paint fumes, stumbling over step stools from getting unintentionally high off of paint fumes, developing raccoon-like eyes from the paint that's misted down off the rollers as they're applied heavily and with much muscular force to the vaulted ceilings so that a second tedious coat of paint won't be necessary. Incessant painting making me crazy like Van Gogh.  And for what?  So that when people I hardly ever see and hardly know show up in a few days, all smiles, "Happy Thanksgiving!", they'll presumably think we've always lived in a spotless house with fresh coats of paint. 


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