3:30 p.m., there's a knock on the door. I get up from my desk, where I was very successfully writing many, many words, and answer it. There is a strange man in a plaid shirt, paint stained pants and black framed glasses holding a red canvas bag standing at my door.

"I'm the plumber." He says. This declaration is met with much confusion on my part. The plumber had visited us yesterday to fix the apartment next door's bathroom faucet. That's right, I said the apartment next door. Apparently, access to their pipes necessitated a large one foot by one foot hole to be cut in the wall behind the head of my bed. I assumed that the duct taping of the hole after five plus hours of poking around yesterday rectified the problem. I was not happy with the fact that a hole had been cut into the wall and patched, gaudily I might add, but I was dealing with it (you couldn't see it when my bed was in place any ways).

And then the plumber came back. It's 8:30 and he's been gone for exactly 30 minutes and he STILL HAS TO COME BACK TOMORROW.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

"I need to solder the pipes," sketchy plumber man informs me. I'm a little perturbed because I'm in gross writing clothes (i.e. grass green yoga pants and scruffy old Greek week shirt with, that's right folks, food spatter stains on it) and, furthermore, I'M MAKING PROGRESS ON MY THESIS. Serious progress, we're talking three pages single spaced which brings my total page count for this particular essay to 17 (out of a projected 25). I've been struggling with this essay and was in such a writing groove it was unbelievable. The memories were flowing, and I was waxing lyrical like crazy. It was a Good Writing Day. But I figure, based on my soldering experiences from high school shop class in which I actually used a soldering gun to solder, uh, whatever it was that needed soldering, that this would take maybe an hour. Tops, two hours.

Uh, no. As previously stated, the plumber man didn't leave until 8 p.m. Furthermore, after reopening the wound in my wall, he LEFT for like three hours to tool around in the other apartment... the apartment that actually possesses the busted pipes. Meanwhile, I'm stuck on the couch, losing all train of thought as I start to worry that one of the cats is gonna get sealed up in the wall (not that it would matter, as I could just rip the duct tape off).

Until the plumber knocked. I had to move my bed, and move myself away from my desk, which just killed any momentum that I had. And I didn't manage to get it back. So out of the eight hours that I had set aside to write and possibly revise, about four of it went down the shitter.

*sigh* The thesis gods are testing me.