Portrait Of The Artist On A Roof
My parents’ roof, to be exact. Yesterday I finally scurried up there to clean the gutters, which Dad had been bugging me to do since June (of 2011). Hats off to anyone whose profession revolves around this kind of thing. It was sweaty, awkward work. It was also boring—in the sense that I found no decomposing animals in said gutters. Just pine needles and sludge.