Notes From A Low-Ceilinged Room
I now live in a room that comes equipped with an attack ceiling fan. In fact, I punched the offending fan just this morning. I was making my bed, and when I raised my arms to throw the bedspread over the bed, THWACK, my fist struck wood. Wood that was moving at a pretty reasonable clip. Needless to say, it punched me back. Not ten minutes awake, I’d lost a game of bloody knuckles to an inanimate object.
Now when I stand under it, I’m a little afraid. Like it might reach down a little on its own and, THWACK, leave me with a goose egg and a bald spot.
It looks like I’m restrained to hanging out with only short people until the end of August.
Wait. No.
I should only hang out with tall people, and not warn them, and smile inside as I watch them get the tops of their heads whacked, and try not to laugh out loud when they look at the ceiling wondering what the fuck happened and throw their arms up in defense and THWACK, THWACK…
God, I’m evil.
So. Do you know any tall people?
Yao Ming. I don’t know him personally, but maybe when he’s done with the whole Olympic thing, you could get him to stop by. If you speak French and are not afraid of the undead, you could dig up Napoleon and invite him over. Although, it might be a little creepy if you had to sit with a corpse who had his hand stuck in the middle of his coat the whole time. What’s the deal with that anyway? Did he lose a quarter or have chronic belly itch?