Scribblus Interruptussss

My brother is so wise. Over the phone, he talked me down off the ledge this morning.
[insert curse word here...make an adjective of it, describing...] the microwave, suddenly and frustratingly busted...

Ahh...and now someone's at the door — just as I'm tryyying to empty my head of the rant crashing about in there, behind my eyes. Have to slip over to the spy-hole a moment. I'll be Bach.

No one's there. Though. I can hear the buzz-boxes buzzing, in other apartments in the building. Someone's out front, obviously, pushing buttons. I don't like being pushed. And I'm not feeling at all neighbourly. Besides, knowing the pack who dwell in this stack of boxes, I'm prob'ly not far off in assuming it'll just be "Heh, I fuggot my keys."

The world could end so simply for such as these, couldn't it?

Radio buzzing: Residents are reminded to remain indoors during the solar maximum. Specifically, between the hours of very early and the very hot part of the afternoon. Death is fer'sure, and can be got from repeated exposures, such as incidental glare through glass foyers of apartment blocks.

That felt good. Place is quiet again. Either the someone stirred another someone into an act, especially like that word today, of neighbourliness; or went away, prob'ly to stew in that coffee shop around the corner, about how unneighbourly Vancouver's become toward the forgetful and keyless.

That felt good, too.

Back to wise and consoling brother...

"It's a seven year old microwave. Doors break. Y'can get a new one for fifty bucks." said he.

There might have been monks chanting, somewhere. Maybe a temple, too, smoky in incense.

I don't like broken things, any more than being pushed. My repeated fiddlings near spent me. At that moment came the epiphany. He was right, my brother! Once this writing exercise is done, I shall dress again for the blazing summery outdoors. I shall seek this new and reasonably-priced microwave, of which he spoke. Also, I shall take a hammer to the offending former unit, and convince it to unlatch — to release to me my favourite cup — if I'm not later again in a mood to try fix it.