Quick recap:
Nobody loves me, therefore I’m building a gyros spindle in my apartment.
Quick recaps leave more room for What than Why, okay?
After failing to create any sort of gyros spindle on my own, and after failing to also do enough construction to make it seem like my apartment was like this when I got here, I decided to call a professional.
Tip: Gyros spindle makers are not in the phonebook under Gyros. Or Spindles. Or Spindles, Gyros. Or Makers, Gyros Spindles of. I don’t know exactly how this book is constructed because you have to try to figure out what words someone else uses to describe something, which is impossible because you don’t even know the person. If it was my mom, I would look under something like, “Meat, You know the kind on that stick that spins in the window and that nice Saudi Arabian man cuts it off of there.” But it’s not my mom, and whoever organizes the phone book doesn’t talk like me or like my mom, so that left me pretty much out of options. I thought about looking under what my old girlfriend would call it, but that’s kind of like letting her win.
It turns out that if you just start calling people and ask them if they know someone who can do it for you, you only have to get twenty or thirty people in before someone says yes, and that’s faster than trying to flip through this book designed by some maniac.
This guy came over. He had a leather belt with tools on it, so you knew he was the real deal. He also said he could do it but that it would cost me, and that’s another way you know that he’s for real. Real construction guys always charge you a lot more than you thought it was going to be because you really have no goddamn idea.
He started working early in the morning. Construction guys like to work early in the morning because then we can all hear them constructing and think that they’re doing a really good job of getting to hard work, but they mostly hit things with a hammer and tell jokes about girls who walk pat and what they think their vaginas are like for sex. You’d think he would have been done in the afternoon, but he was still hard at work measuring and stuff when I woke up. “Why don’t you start maybe doing some stuff?” I said.
He said, “My father always taught me to measure twice and cut once.”
I thought that was stupid and that his father probably didn’t know very much about the number of times you were supposed to do things. And if you were stupid and you read the wrong number once, how much are you going to learn between the first and second time? It’s not like you get to take a measuring class right then. If you did, I would say go ahead and measure a second time to see how much you’ve learned. But otherwise, it’s pointless.
He worked all morning, hammering things and looking through the kitchen window at the girls who passed by and telling me what he thought their vaginas might be like. He would tell me what he thought a vagina would be like and then he would say, “Right? Right?” Sometimes he was right, but sometimes I didn’t think he was so much right. One vagina he said looked like it would feel like a grapefruit cut open and on fire. I hope that one wasn’t right because that poor woman must feel sick and sort of warm.
After he finished and was done sitting around for a couple more hours to do the vagina thing some more, I gave him a bunch of money and he got the fuck out. He didn’t say how much it cost. We just stood across from each other, and I had a stack of money bills in my hand and he held his hand out. I put the bills in his hand one at a time and he would say, “Keep going.” I think he was onto my trick of putting all my big bills on the bottom and hoping he would get tired before I got very far through the stack and leave with a bunch of one dollar bills and gift certificates that looked like bills.
Finally, I had my gyros spindle. I didn’t see how anything about this could be bad.
But maybe something about this could!