When I was a kid, the twin pillars of my torture were Barry Manilow (Mom) and Bobby Vinton (Dad). You probably don't know Bobby Vinton, so allow me to share.
I'm very sorry.
I consider wallpaper removal the single most unpleasant job I've ever attempted. Breaking up concrete with a sledgehammer? Digging ditches? Child, please. Wallpaper removal is horrible. It's sweaty, it's physically painful, it's frustrating, and when you're done, you've probably damaged your drywall. I swore to never do it again. Enter Pete, my wallpaper-removal guy and the reason I've had "I'm Mr. Lonely" in my head all week.
Around 60 and a resident of Metamuville, Pete has extended his one-day stay to four days. Near as I can tell, this is so he can hang around me more and ask me about myself, my house, my dog, etc. while I attempt to have an online meeting. Pete doesn't let little things like headphones and my active conversation with a clearly visible person stop him. He is driving me insane.
Me, to my monitor: "So Jason, I think it's critical that we—"
Pete, pointing out window: "IS THAT CAMANO ISLAND? I WENT TO CAMANO ISLAND ONCE. I THINK IT WAS CAMANO. MAYBE IT WAS HAT ISLAND. ANYWAYS, THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY THAT'S BOTH LONG AND POINTLESS. IT WAS 1973, AND NIXON WAS..."
At this point, I would chew my own leg off to extricate myself from his presence. He keeps inventing reasons to talk to me, to return the next day. And he bought a $50 tape gun just because he thinks I'll need one. "I'll lend you this tape gun," he said. "I live just down the street. It's no problem for me to come back."
"Oh, I'll just buy it from you," I replied. He was visibly crushed. Check and mate.