Monday, December 19, 2005

Life Imitating Shlock

I woke up yesterday to another "Lazy Sunday" (which, if you missed the SNL rap video from... Saturday night... see it here, I beg of you.) I turned the light on in my room, and something seemed strange. My light didn't seem to be as luminscent as usual. The bathroom light cast a dim and weary shadow over the porcelain confines of my morning dew.

I went to the basement to do my laundry. Picture the boiler room in Heathers, with 3 machines circa 19-Fifty-Castro, and you're there with me. One machine was emitting a buzzing noise, and the digital read out was flicking on and off, on and off: 5 minutes, over and over again, and not spin-cycling the non-designer clothes left inside, leaving them to rot in their own Tide-spiked punch.

I returned to my apartment, and everything seemed "less than." My stereo was playing my music a little too slow (and if you've ever heard the down-syndromed nightmare that is the slo-mo Kelly Clarkson remix, you won't question the blood coming out of my eyes). I went to straighten my hair. As always, I set the flattening iron to "Ike Turner", for that natural, straightened look. Relaxed: That's me. But the usual bacon-in-pan sizzling I was used to made not a stir. My hair, instead of burning to a cajuned crisp, looked... healthy. No, this wasn't right at all.

I expressed my concerns to my roomate. She, too, noticed a lack of sparkle in the apartment that day, but what could we do? All we could do was wait... until 4:45 that afternoon, when the sun had already set, and blackness descended over Apt. 2E (or, affectionately, "Two-ey").

Panic ensued. Me, half-dressed, searching around frantically in the kitchen drawer for anything that would produce fire (since quitting smoking a few months ago, I tossed out all of my matches, save for some limited edition "T.G.I. Friday's" books). Then it hit me: When did I become the lead in the hit musical "Rent"? There I was in my shitty apartment in the DARK looking for a fucking CANDLE. I mean, really people, where is my stash? Where is my stash! Won't you light my candle, and then shove it, wick-end and lit, into my face? Because, of ALL the musicals to find oneself caught in, let it NOT be Rent, please, for me. I'd much rather wake up one morning a missionary in Havana (Guys & Dolls), or a robo-turd on skates (Starlight Express), or a psychotic child-molester in striped pantyhose (Douche-ical! The Musical!). Also I'm not good at shrugging my shoulders and then kicking my leg out angrily, a staple move for any member of the Rent cast.

Fake Anthony Rapp, I'm looking at you.

I should also add that coming from some strange corner of my apartment was this crazy sounding digital demon noise... like a killer robot cricket holding a tiiiiny chainsaw. Awww... tiny chainsaws. I could file my nails with one!

Anyway, there is really nothing worse than getting dressed in the pitch darkness, especially when everything you own is black... trying to feel necklines on shirts ("vee, vee, crew, turtle, turtle, turtle, vee, johnny collar, turtle, fishnet hoodie, vee...), finding the right pair of jeans ("crotch hole, ass hole, thigh tear, ass-to-crotch-tear")... I had to feel practically every article of clothing strewn on my chair and in my drawers, doing a pretty great impersonation of Stevie Wonder at the Barney's Warehouse Sale. (Blogs don't come in Braille, do they? Looks like this joke's on the BLIND PEOPLE.)

When I left my apartment, in near shambles, I saw some fire trucks and electricians on my street, no doubt fucking shit up for the entire neighborhood. Luckily power was restored to the neighborhood, but apparently my apartment still has no hot water or heat. Unluckily for me, I have CRAY CRAY PMS today and want to murder the world and then weep on their mass-grave, Slobo-style.

Women! Am I right?

Seriously, someone bring me a mug with a menstrual joke on it.

Ooooh! Someone got told! (p.s. nice try, "Blossom Fuller": you obviously don't get your period anymore. Also, "Blossom Fuller"? Soooo noony. Uch.)

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