All day Sunday jazz streaming from the web and I'm off work sitting here in my sweats playing spider solitaire. I don't want to do anything because my barking sinuses, but there's plenty to do. The gallon of woodwork paint is sitting upstairs nagging at me. The paint brushes are feathering my conscience. Even the green cut in tape rasps at me. Will we never finish the damn living room?
I feel like ibuprofen and a nap, fall asleep while the 'Trane plays Aisha....no no... ibuprofen and a whispering TV golf announcer "That was a beautiful chip shot, but I would have used the 60 degree wedge instead." zzzzzzz.
Ahh screw it, I'll go ahead and paint (while jazzing it up)