11/26/01

Over the holiday weekend I cleaned the gutters. You haven’t lived until you’ve stood on the creaky top step of a ladder and reached up and dug your fingers into a cold slurry of leaves and pine needles, bits of which fall on your face as you transfer it to your bucket.

And then there’s that smell.

The only reason this post exists—because who cares about my gutters?—is so I could use the word “slurry” in a sentence.