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Screw this crap.

I am not going to try to come up with a touching and witty story about Abby, current events, being a dad, or failing as a writer.  I am not going to carefully craft an allegory about friendship through the medium of kitchen utensils.  I am not going to compare types of women to fast food chains in order to mock stereotypes and the food industry simultaneously.

None of that garbage today.

Today I’m going to tell you about why my back hurts.

My back hurts because I had to pick up a piano.

I never really liked pianos that much before having to pick one up.  They sound nice when someone who knows what they are doing fiddles around with them, but they also attract morons and stupids that just plink out the theme song to Super Mario with no sense of rhythm or volume.  And yes, they look nice sometimes, but God help you if you want to move the damn thing to different part of the room because they are made of stone and neutron star dust covered in a thin veneer of oak.  And if you want the piano upstairs so you don’t have to listen to some idiot child massacre the collected works of Sharon, Lois, and Bram, you had better hope that you live in a house with no roof and that your neighbours store cranes in their backyard.

I recently installed a massive swath of laminate flooring at my in-laws house with my brother acting as the foil to my rage and frustration.  It looks lovely, and it was well worth the agony of trying to snap together carefully engineered pieces of mock-wood that, in some cases, weren’t exactly as carefully engineered as one might hope, but the nature of its construction meant that we had to move the piano five times before the end of the job.

The first four moves were over unfinished plywood or carpet, so they were less stressful, while maintaining their qualities of pain and suck.  The last move, however, took the heaviest and nastiest of all instruments and ran it out on to the newly installed floor.  Like all pianos, this one rides around on four tiny wheels made of polyurethane and hate, and I would sooner be damned than allow those things to molest my new floor.  So at every step, over every inch, I lifted and grunted that piano over hastily-made trails of cardboard, refusing to roll it even as my brother insisted that the new floors could take it.  At one point, due to the constraints of a hallway, I had to lift it with one arm.  I’m pretty sure that it was during that activity that I compressed my spine by a solid inch-and-a-half.

Someday, someday this will be you, you stupid, useless instrument.

Now back in its original resting place, the piano still sits on four small squares of cardboard.  I will remove them when I can trust myself to go near the damn thing without dousing it in gasoline and setting it on fire.

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