...but there are three bins of mail in the stairwell of an apartment building. Whose mail is this? Is this the work of some old postman, hoarding Christmas packages in my stairwell? Maybe it was a young postling who panicked because he didn't have all his mail delivered by the end of the day, and instead of going back to face the shame he dumped the rest of his goods in the stairwell of the last building on the block. We'll see what the fate of these lost packages will be tomorrow morning.
I walk upstairs and all the contents of my bathroom are outside in the hallway and there is what seems to be a new toilet. It doesn't look any different but I noticed that the flush handle was more sturdy. But, I can't tell whether it's a new toilet or not. Maybe it's just me feeling out of place in/on my own throne. I guess this is the work of the landlord who came to check out the rotting floorboards underneath the flimsy tiles. The only evidence for this theory: there are damp woodchips all over the bathroom. Oh, and he did mention that he would come and do some work on the bathroom today. But for now, I'm just scared that there's going to be more work done on the only bathroom in this apartment.
I don't like the feeling of being stuffed on canned soup and cookies.
As I blog about this, I wonder who the hell cares about these little cosmic hiccups in my universe. Who reads these blogs anyway? Who writes in them? Whatever possessed me, of all people, to start writing again? I couldn't tell you how it happened, but at least I can tell you the moment I felt the urge to write: watching Bourdain salivate over street-porchetta on his new TV show, I pulled the laptop out of my bag and started to type.
No comments:
Post a Comment