hateration

I want to go back to New Hampshire!!! Just two days removed from the wide open spaces of air filled with actual oxygen and strange things are already happening, the least of which being the moronic, over-cologned IT guy named Luigi who just restarted my computer and hence deleted an epic blog post after I specifically told him to tell me if he needed to restart my computer. I can still smell him.

The strangeness began as soon as D and I rolled back into the city in our rented Corolla. A proverbial black cat in the form of the last boy with whom I had a "constant non-committal make-out session (NCMO, pronounced 'nic-mo')" crossed our path somewhere around West 43rd Street. As I just recently did the stop calling thing this was rather startling.

After shaking that one off, I returned to my humble abode all ready to begin a stoned slumber. The elevator light was on number eight, and no amount of button pushing would make it budge. Since I moved in over a year ago, said elevator has been out of commission just two times, and one of those times was The Blackout so that doesn't count. Needless to say, walking up ten flights of stairs while exhausted, carrying luggage, and needing to pee sucks.

If that wasn't enough, I decided I just couldn't wait the nine hours until I'd be at work to check my email. Lo and behold, I was greeted my very first piece of blog hate mail! And this is not just any old hate mail, but a 1,678 WORD PIECE OF HATE MAIL. Sandwiched between blurbs on new-wave Christians and fake-hair scrunchies was this run of the mill Local Paper joke: "Oh goody, an inane patriotic poem. This must get an entire page in the newspaper!: 'Jim Bob* woke early one morning with words flowing through his mind. Within about 20 minutes, Bob composed, I, American, a poem to honor the troops deployed around the world.' [I wonder if he was inspired by the upcoming Will Smith blockbuster, I, Robot...]" So Jim Bob Googled himself one night and was offended. I do feel bad for being a bully, but if ever there was evidence that there is not enough to do in that little town it is that one thousand six hundred and seventy eight word email. (Incidentally, this is my favorite line: "I will say this…'I, Robot'…you are 100% correct." Right on.) Anyway, sorry Jim. My snotty sarcastic ass is really not worth that many of your words.

And, last but not least, when I returned home last night and turned on the TV, the guy from three NCMO's ago (who is physically old enough to be my father but has the sweetest face ever and the loveliest leather/booze/smoke smell) was on the screen in a VH1 documentary entitled "The Secret Lives of Swingers."

*Name has been changed here, although you could go back into the archives, but I know you're not going to do that, so I think this is sufficient.