Why I Love the Internet and My Friends So, after my restful afternoon reading and replenishing my dry skin, I turn on the kitchen faucet to wash the few dishes I've dirtied today. The normal woosh I get from any of the faucets in this house is a mere trickle. Fearing the worst, I check for leaks below the sink. Nothing. Good. I try all the other faucets. They provide the same lovely water pressure I've grown to count on. Good. I turn off the stereo and listen for telltale sounds of running water. None. Good. I descend into the crawl space (also known as "Where the Genetically Modified Spider People Live"). No leaks. Good. So...what's the problem? Do I consult the home repair books my father has given me over the years? Nope. Do I Google for "constipated faucet". Nope. I IM one of my pals who is known to be able to diagnose and fix many, many things. After determining that the valves controlling the water supply to the faucet are actually on (this is the equivelent to "Is the computer plugged in?"), he suggests that the filter is clogged. I imagine myself decending into the crawl space again, turning off the water main, and dismantling the whole faucet to find the filter. My friend quickly corrects me: the filter is at the very end of the faucet. Without using any tools, I unscrew the thingy at the end of the faucet. Lo and behold! It's full of black schmutz. I rinse it off, screw it back on, turn on the water and wham! Water pressure. I IM him back with a big thank-you. My relief is quickly replaced with disgust, though--where did the schmutz come from? It came from the Montreal water system, that's where...I'm sticking to drinking red wine exclusively from now on.

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