In which I am a dummy dumb-dumb dummyfacehead

You are looking at the interior of the cabinet under the sink in the master bathroom. Ignore the terrible wallpaper in the back; it’s not my fault, I didn’t put it there. There’s probably four more layers underneath it, too.

Several months ago– I don’t know how many; it could have been a year for all the fuck I know– Sushi climbed under there and somehow managed to collapse that shelf. It has been collapsed and lying at an angle for a very, very long time, and it has annoyed me every single fucking time I have looked at it during that time. Now, granted, this isn’t terribly often, as I don’t need to open the cabinet very frequently, but there’s some shit we’ve just been keeping on top of the vanity for all this time because the shelf was collapsed.

Why haven’t I fixed it? Laziness, and the fact that I am old and fat and absolutely loathe having to sit on the floor. But I have resolved for every single fucking weekend for months to get down there, figure out what was broken, replace it, and get that Goddamn shelf fixed. I figured I might have to find some pegs she knocked loose and put them back in place; the worst-case scenario was that one of them was actually broken and I’d have to make a quick run to the hardware store to buy a dowel or something. But I didn’t want to crawl around on the floor, didn’t want to dig around in that cabinet– it’s deep; I can’t reach the back of it without sticking my head inside– and I am, again, incredibly lazy.

I finally, tonight, managed to get my fat ass on the ground in front of it, OutKast playing on my phone, convinced that come hell and high water I was going to fix this fucking shelf.

Which involved picking it up and placing it on top of that dark brown support on the right there, which is screwed into the wall. The two pieces of perpendicular white wood are glued & screwed and aren’t coming apart.

It took ten seconds.

It took longer for me to stand up once I was done than it did to fix the fucking shelf.

No pegs. No bent nails or screws. Not even anything with any weight or requiring any real application of muscle power. I just picked the fucking thing up and put it back on the shelf. I mean, it might fall off again at some point, especially if a cat decides to wedge herself into that corner again. I could screw it in place, I suppose. But I’ve been putting this job off for months and it took ten seconds.


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Luther M. Siler

Teacher, writer of words, and local curmudgeon. Enthusiastically profane. Occasionally hostile.

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