Thump, thump, thudullapptsshh. OWwwwmuuttthherrrfuck-er!

Ah, tripping up the stairs: a talent of mine, made better through a shit ton of practice. With my face pressed up against the peeling paint of the porch, I can hear Dad in the basement, practicing. I can't tell whether it's arpeggios or Jerry Lee Lewis he's pounding out. Either way, he won't hear the doorbell, or the phone ring.

He's focused and I'm locked out.