The power you're supplying. It's electrofying.

It happened so inconspicuously. One minute the garbage disposal was there. Next minute, it was a silent gaping hole in my sink. When I flipped the switch, the sink stayed mute.

Not good.

Down the street, in the distance where a jackhammer or other such machinery making a jackhammery kind of noise, rumbled against rock and pipe, it also - apparently - rumbled with an electrical line and won. No electricity.

This reality, this stark and frightening truth, hit me where it counted. In my hair dryer. It wasn't going to work. And, because of that, neither would my hair.

Then it hit me in the iron. Meaning a day wearing wrinkly clothes.
And hit me in the heater. Which meant a day of multiple layers of wrinkly clothes.
And the stove.
And the refrigerator.
And the computer.

Dear Father in Heaven, that meant the internet was down. No way to work. No way to produce. Suddenly, my silent house rang with...well...more silence. The clocks didn't tick. The vents didn't rattle. The indescribable and ignored hum of electrical appliances couldn't hum. And, therefore, I couldn't ignore them.

It was anarchy!

Showers were no longer hot. Cell phones no longer charged. A light bulb teased me from it's socket, mocking and leering but never lighting.

I couldn't go on like this. It was too much, too exhausting. Everything was suddenly...dead. I felt useless and impotent. After a long and tedious battle against the nothingness, I succumbed. And gave in to the inevitable future - a life of bad hair, wrinkles, freezing showers, and room-temperature soup. Was there really any reason to go on?

Then, like a trumpet from heaven, my house alarm beeped, the heater kicked on, and life resumed. Electricity was back. Oh the honey of it. Oh the rejoicing. It had been so long. It had gone on forever. Days. Years. A century, even. Or, according to my watch, roughly 40 minutes.

Merry Christmas PSO and all you PSO workers. I love you.