sooner or later you just have to laugh because there is a big, gaping hole in your living room ceiling and you don’t know where it leads. this morning, you woke up and heard raindrops and you started to get excited to wear your new raincoat, but when you looked out the window the pavement was dry.
it was drizzling in your living room, from nonexistent rain clouds, somewhere in the apartment above you. there, on the floor, was a blue pot, the largest pot you own, and it was already half full. so you wheeled the cooler, still in the kitchen from a party three weeks ago, in its place, because you figure, if it’s good enough for four 6-packs of beer, it’s good enough for a day’s worth of rain.
you forget about it by the time you get to work and remember by the time it’s lunch. you call your roommate who calls your landlord who says he’ll take care of it, and he does.
back home, the pot is gone. the cooler is, too. the dripping has stopped, and in place of the dark ceiling cloud is a hole about the length and width of your favorite book. it is unfinished and unattractive, but it is somehow charming and reminds you of a secret passageway in one of your dreams. it reminds you of that movie you saw on TV, once, where a family buys a house and everything goes wrong until something finally goes right and, somehow, they pull through.