There is glue everywhere. I’ve taken two showers tonight and still look like I’ve been tarred and feathered, except with cat hair and sawdust. I had to blow my nose and some of the tissue stayed on my face. I acted surprised when the lady at Subway pointed it out. The bit is glued in the drill. If you need an 1/8″ hole, I’ve got you covered. Don’t ask me to drill a 1/4″ hole. Don’t ask me for anything else.
I decided to try my hand in construction and build a vocal booth in one of my bedrooms. And now it’s too late to turn back.
When I went to borrow my dad’s circular saw, he asked if I discussed this impending train wreck with my landlord. I said, “Well, I consulted a landlord.” Of course, I was talking about Will, who isn’t my landlord, but is a landlord. I said, “Will, what do you think about me doing this project?” He said it was cool; live and let live. Dad said I was an idiot. Actually, he said, “You didn’t get the engineering gene.” He was referring to my grandfather, who built power plants in Georgia. But this is no power plant. It’s a firecode-breaking travesty, currently serving as a jungle gym for my cat. So, I know what Dad meant.
But it’s gonna be badass when it’s done. When it rains, whoever’s in the booth won’t even know it, because it will be soundproof, because I used the special glue, the glue that costs $100.
I just hope that this person won’t need to use the bathroom. To get things working again, I’d have to make a service call, but I don’t want my landlord’s plumber to discover that I’ve basically built a new room, or that I have cats. Or that there are broken sea shells in the drain. But I also don’t want to have to ask the person in the booth if they need to go #1 or #2 and then give them a coat hanger. That’s unprofessional.
Don’t tell me I don’t have my priorities straight. I’m making a booth. What have you done? And yes I do have a plan. When the landlord finds out, and he’s all like, “What the hell man?”, I’m simply going to say it was already there when I moved in. You always have to have a plan. Mine is to gaslight my landlord.
“Follow your dream, boy, I reckon,” Dad said with disappointment.
I want my fiancé to like me again, and to forgive me for building this giant box in the middle of what was her office. I said I was just borrowing the room for a while. Then I started building shit. “The door is crooked,” she said. But then I found her a buffalo chicken sandwich late-night and she was like, “The door is alright, I guess.” So I said fine, you can come to the ribbon-cutting. “I want my office back,” she said. I’m just glad I remembered to get blue cheese. Had I shown up with ranch, it might have been a different story. When the recording is done, I’ll tear down the booth, and she will have her office back.
But the next time I decide to dabble in construction work—which will occur sometime between the rapture and Hell freezing over—remind me to consult a professional. Speaking of professionals, I think I’ll call that plumber before it’s too late.
Help me come up with a name for my booth. Right now all I’ve got is “Wilkes Booth,” but that’s kind of messed up.
That’s it for now. I’ll close my laptop and hope it’s not glued shut in the morning.