My grandfather wouldve been 98 today (though 96 good years and two royally shitty months of 97 are a solid record; we should all be so lucky) and, with the exception of one row by the door area – on the docket today, along with floor trim which I'll be sourcing from the already-stained pieces of what was once the first desk I built –, that fucking floor (its official name) is in NuSanctum: if hell is, indeed, a thing, and I'm sentenced there, my own personal slice of it will consist of me having to do flooring for eternity while my mercifully long-dead stepfather attempts to impart life lessons via radio-blasted high school sports metaphors in that fucking swamp-creature-love-child-of-Jimmy-Carter-and-Jimmy-Stewart voice of his. And with that visual, I leave you to your day.