Actually when the since thrown out bathroom contour rug sent me flying and left in a crumpled heap on the floor where the contour rug had been (clothed, so don’t ask) I managed to take out the antique towel rod with my elbow. Snapped it clean in half. It looked ancient when we moved in thirty years ago so the thing could be sixty years old. Maybe older. The wood was actually worn down in the middle from a zillion damp towels like the wheel ruts in an old Roman road. I destroyed an artefact.

So I bought a plastic replacement and have to saw it down to fit into the fixed ceramic (or whatever it is) tile rod holder things which are 22” inches apart instead of the accepted 24” because back in 1932 The US was still on a base p-11 number system. Or maybe the builder fucked up. Whatever.

So yeah, a saw. Our old saw (like as ancient as the towel rod) was no longer sawable. So I got to be manly for a minute and look at all the tools to find saws on Amazon. Bought one. That’s it, the whole story.

You know, there are essays about nothing and then there are essays about nothing, and this was an essay about nothing.