[Where thrills are cheap and love is divine]
Somebody (Rickey, we're guessing) peed in the demon toilet and I didn't notice until it started stinking and I lifted the cover and was horrified. All we could do was try to flush to get rid of the stench, which unleashed a flood of blue-green water that dripped onto the bathroom floor and surged through the walls and floor and ceiling, down into the drinking glass cabinet downstairs in the kitchen. The worst part is that we knew flushing would be futile because that toilet doesn't flush; it just circulates. But the pee had to be moved. It was growing a skin. (These are not things I should announce to the internet world, but feel compelled to because they can't go unmentioned. We are not disgusting people, I promise.)
So it seems my notebook paper "Don't use this toilet" sign isn't quite enough to persuade sleepwalking pissers to lean through the doorway and shoot for toilet No. 2, which is literally (and I really mean literally, not figuratively, since the terms are often carelessly substituted for one another, but I really mean it) less than a foot away. Plan B calls for masking tape to be wrapped around the bowl, ensuring that the seat and cover don't come up at all.
We are holding off telling maintenance about this problem because it will involve them ripping out our wall and our ceiling and something tells me that would be better left to them when we move out. Strange men with tools and plaster in my apartment might work for Joey 'Hornswaggler' Hood, but they don't work for me. Zing!
At the risk of sounding like a bored 80-year-old, it was really nice out today. Temps dropped below 90 for the first time in at least a week, I think. When I left work at 11 and stepped from the air-conditioned lobby into the courtyard outside, I barely even noticed the change. Usually my hair shrivels and poofs and my clothes get heavier.
+++
Oh god, I haven't seen a single episode of the final SFU season, but you better believe I know everything that's going on. Nate, you bastard! I can't believe you might actually die this time, you ungrateful prick!
I scold because I love.
+++
Cox's kitty, Razzy, died, so I'm devoting this to his memory.
"Razz" by Kings of Leon
Just like the girlies back at corner stone,
wash my bugle boy a watching my throne
sweet mutilations of a sold to nothing man,
lord have mercy shake is falling through your hand
razz the kid
because you love me i'm the chosen one,
these are the days to not be having no fun
i listen back to what you told me before,
just tell me where to come, i'll knock down the door.
razz the kid*
*Yeah, it makes no sense, but neither do most of the things cats do and say anyway. Long live Razzy's memory!
Somebody (Rickey, we're guessing) peed in the demon toilet and I didn't notice until it started stinking and I lifted the cover and was horrified. All we could do was try to flush to get rid of the stench, which unleashed a flood of blue-green water that dripped onto the bathroom floor and surged through the walls and floor and ceiling, down into the drinking glass cabinet downstairs in the kitchen. The worst part is that we knew flushing would be futile because that toilet doesn't flush; it just circulates. But the pee had to be moved. It was growing a skin. (These are not things I should announce to the internet world, but feel compelled to because they can't go unmentioned. We are not disgusting people, I promise.)
So it seems my notebook paper "Don't use this toilet" sign isn't quite enough to persuade sleepwalking pissers to lean through the doorway and shoot for toilet No. 2, which is literally (and I really mean literally, not figuratively, since the terms are often carelessly substituted for one another, but I really mean it) less than a foot away. Plan B calls for masking tape to be wrapped around the bowl, ensuring that the seat and cover don't come up at all.
We are holding off telling maintenance about this problem because it will involve them ripping out our wall and our ceiling and something tells me that would be better left to them when we move out. Strange men with tools and plaster in my apartment might work for Joey 'Hornswaggler' Hood, but they don't work for me. Zing!
At the risk of sounding like a bored 80-year-old, it was really nice out today. Temps dropped below 90 for the first time in at least a week, I think. When I left work at 11 and stepped from the air-conditioned lobby into the courtyard outside, I barely even noticed the change. Usually my hair shrivels and poofs and my clothes get heavier.
+++
Oh god, I haven't seen a single episode of the final SFU season, but you better believe I know everything that's going on. Nate, you bastard! I can't believe you might actually die this time, you ungrateful prick!
I scold because I love.
+++
Cox's kitty, Razzy, died, so I'm devoting this to his memory.
"Razz" by Kings of Leon
Just like the girlies back at corner stone,
wash my bugle boy a watching my throne
sweet mutilations of a sold to nothing man,
lord have mercy shake is falling through your hand
razz the kid
because you love me i'm the chosen one,
these are the days to not be having no fun
i listen back to what you told me before,
just tell me where to come, i'll knock down the door.
razz the kid*
*Yeah, it makes no sense, but neither do most of the things cats do and say anyway. Long live Razzy's memory!
posted by theogeo | 7/28/2005 02:03:00 AM
3 Comments:
Damn you and your spoilers! I'm not watching SFU, either. NOW.
Your apartment has never been right from day one. Sounds like moving out may be the best idea.
Sorry for the spoilers, Tamaramanama. And Khall, you're damn right. The bloody rag pulled from the garbage disposal that first day should have been a red flag. And now we're stuck in this lease! Argh!
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