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Friday, August 15, 2003

blowtorches and broken nails

Today my cousin's leg hair was singed by a blowtorch. My grandfather chuckled when he found out that he was the clumsy culprit. I nervously laughed along with him, even though I still wished that the sun was out.

Grey skies and scattered showers seem all the more so from the rooftop of a four-story apartment building on the West Side of Chicago. We're watching Grandpa melting the tar on the underside of the black roofing sheets with his propane-powered firegun. When he's done, we provide adhesion through a frenzic stamping procedure, not unlike kindergarteners who just discovered the wonders of Elmer's Glue.

It was really hot mud underneath the roofing sheets, oozy sticky dark chocolate pudding, and i'm pounding down with my gloved fists, the tip of my tongue sticking out of the left corner of my lips.

Today I broke a nail.

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