On October 1, 2005 I wrote:
"..Fact: About ten years ago I lived inside a jewelry box.."
Now, I remember writing this. The use of the word fact is in and of itself such an audacious abuse of the very word (fact) that I can't fathom my own audacity. I went on to say:
"..It was a small apartment. There wasn't a sink in the bathroom. There was just no room for any extras, like bathroom sinks in that apartment.."
It's like I'm trying to wriggle out of my original statement. It continues:
"..My apartment, with sixteen foot high ceilings and four by four foot floor space. And its deep, turn of the century windows with all sorts of scrollies, rosettes, trim and moulding and real 100% solid wooden doors all heavily painted upon and replete with cornices and gargoyles, each betraying in architectural language many, many secrets.."
My God. What kind of asshole writes that?
"..and my little bath tub, it had feet! I named it The Holly Golightly.."
I won't bother with whether or not the above is true, only reiterate that an asshole is definitely in our midst. She blathers on:
"..I brushed my teeth over the tub. In case you were wondering. Because people always wondered. If not panicked.
Not true. Nobody panicked.
"..And they always asked, Where can I wash my hands..? I said, over the tub. I said it so many times. Over the tub.. over the tub.."
No one ever asked where they could wash thier hands. Draw your own conclusions.
"..It was fun. The sheer dismay over my apartment. Lots of laughs. It was good for at least a few minutes of nervous laughter. Then we almost always left. To go drink. And forget about the size and ratio of things pertaining to my apartment, and rather dance and drink and get into trouble. Of all kinds.."
Here things are taken to almost fantastic levels of insanity, as with this particular statement:
"..Obviously, a hundred years ago it had been the back quarters of a very spacious four story apartment house. It had six rooms. One probably for fruit storage. One for tools and chickens. One for the wash tub and squeezing out of water apparatus (with drain). My apartment was certainly the place where they kept the mops and brooms and boxes of Borax. And moth balls. And coal. It's where the cat slept. With a few chickens. But only in the wintertime.."
Really? Huh. And I wasn't even alive in 1905. Interesting.
"..I loved that apartment. I don't know why. The thing is, I've remained with the same landlord for years and years. I could so easily get that apartment back. I think I'm going to bring it up with my landlord, Carl (his real name) first thing in the morning.."
Actually, Carl is his real name. I wind up the story by presenting some not so disturbing ideas that are luke warm (at best). This is meant to frighten the reader just in time for Halloween. It reads:
"..I can just see it. I put all of this getting my old apartment back into motion. And it's a go. The apartment is available again. So I return from Carl's office with the happy feeling that turns quickly into a weird shaky feeling that I've just done the unthinkable. And there's no getting out of it. So, I start packing (and panicking) knowing that I've just made the weirdest moving mistake I've ever made.."
Suggesting that I've made millions of moving mistakes.
"..And it's the worst. I get there (there's no stopping after I've made such crazy plea to get that apartment back, what with all of the papers signed). And so, a few weeks later, I unpack. I'm back. Right where I started. Oh, the horror. The private horror. And it's like the apartment is haunted by a ghost. And I can't put my finger on it. This ghost, who is she..? She seems familiar. She reminds me of someone I know.."
Wrong again. I would totally know that the ghost was me.