broken enamels

through some mysterious—and quite likely hilarious—set of circumstances, a neat quarter of the pressed-wood toilet seat in the bathroom on the second floor cracked itself clean off sometime in the morning. of course, no one is doing the confessing necessary to transform that sentence into its properly active glory, little realising that a re-en-act-ment would be worth at least 14 duplicate seats. i'd almost be willing to take on the task of ownership and its ensuing pantomime; perhaps the epithetical remarks, regarding the rear of your humble narrator, are actually correlated to real destructive capacity in the world. (as it has been noted, mere suggestion (and the makings of metaphor) press mightily upon me.))

meanwhile (because, it became clear, the perpetrator could not be relied upon to expose him/herself recapitulatedly—and solely for the theatrical enjoyment of the rest and, after all, only some can perch in half-arsed wait forever), i took on the better task of procuring and installing a replacement. apparently, if handled correctly (and "quick dashings to the hardware store without seeking permission/approval" seem to fall into this category), there are certain vitalities that can circumvent the ceaseless negotiation regarding their relative benefits and costs, springing fully formed into decisive action. within the span of a few hours, during which i also paid a convenient visit to the dentist, we are now in possession of a shiny full-ovaled model.

i have also a new tooth.