When men enter hardware shops, their eyes light up as though they see Megan Fox naked. Honestly. Like how I am drawn to a nail bar or a shoe shop, there's this magnetic pull which draws my dad (I go window-shopping with him every week) into the hardware shop in Queensbay Mall. I try to avoid the wing with the damn shop. If unavoidable, I follow him in equipped with enough yawns to last me a year. Yes, he can stay in the place, enraptured, for hours.
Drills, paint, screws, nuts, bolts, hammers, brushes, and a plethora of hoses and watchamacallits. I view these objects with the disdain a cat shows bowl of salad. If I could, I'd pay someone to change my goddamn lightbulb. Leaking tap? Put a bucket underneath. Shaky chair? Buy a goddamn new one. I'm practical that way.
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