2003-10-03

I spent last night romancing the couch and availing myself of old-fashioned home cold remedies, like Neo Citran and Chinese food. (I had a fortune cookie for breakfast. Did you know that I have at my command the wisdom of the ages? S�right! Not quite as cool as having at my command a troop of winged monkeys, but it�ll do in a pinch.) Today I�m feeling much better, but my voice sounds like Kathleen Turner on steroids, so I�m still capable of accruing sympathy at maximum capacity.

Anyway. Drama in my apartment building continues apace. We noticed a few weeks ago that there was a note posted on the door of the Lair of Fat Children, informing them that their lease was being terminated due to non-payment of rent. Poor fat kids! So, the other night, I came home to discover the children cheerfully (unwontedly so, I thought) loading up a truck with the family�s collection of commemorative plates (seriously) and portraits of the Pope on varnished wood (yes, really). I bid them a fond farewell and sent them off into the sunset with my best wishes for their further adventures. Or perhaps actually I just grunted at them and went upstairs to my apartment. But the thought was there.

So the fat kids have moved on to greener pastures; however, Winebeater has NOT, in fact, moved out (apparently our lease does not expressly forbid domestic violence. Score!). He�s still there, and Sis heard him stumble home in the wee hours of the morning the other night. Then she heard him, well, wee. Off the balcony. (Also not covered in the lease: public urination.) Since he lives directly below us, he is now officially referred to in our happy little abode as �Winebeater [stomp stomp]�. In good neighborly fashion, we include him in our quotidian activities: �I feel like dancin�! [stomp stomp] Hey Winebeater! Wanna dance? [stomp stomp]� �Hey everyone! Let�s play horseshoes! Wanna play horseshoes, Winebeater? [clang bang crash]�

I love my building. It�s like Melrose Place crossed with a trailer park.