I'm covered in paint. In primer. In killing primer! It's all over my skin. All over my brain cells. The whole house smells like the killing primer. I feel half stoned and half dizzy. It's a fishy feeling. Swishy fishy.
So I'm covered head to toe in paint. My hair has paint on it. I'm going to throw myself in the tub but I doubt any of this gunk will come off without mineral spirits and I am officially afraid of mineral spirits. But I would like to walk to the corner to get spirit-spirits but I'm not riding THAt train until I get this lethal stuff off my flesh.
Back to the facts, Jack. The basement will be ready for a little rockin' and sockin' by New Years Eve. It will be so intense and insane and unimaginable that I would not bring anyone pregnant or weak of heart so they don't just flip out and die. Leave your granny at home! That's how just...POW...this basement is going to be if my brain cells aren't friend by the killing primer first.
Sugar has a boyfriend. Phoebe and I are jealous.
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