Plaster: Stickiness without End

I have a roommate named Duncan Pflaster who is a playwright whose play I will post about in a minute.

About ten minutes ago, however, someone buzzed my door. Our buzzer doesn't work, so I looked out the window and saw a delivery man with a package. Thinking that this might be something I had ordered, I threw on some decent clothes and ran down four flights of stairs to catch the delivery man before he went away.

On the way down, I swooshed around the corner -- where a workman was re-plastering the hallway after the building was torn up during a spate of electrical rewiring -- and put my hand in wet plaster. It was gross.

I got the package and it turned out to be for Duncan. I brought the package upstairs and decided that now, the official party line is "Eww, now I'm covered in Pflaster!"