Saturday, January 27, 2007

I need a new apartment.

Our refrigerator is broken (won't go colder than 63 degrees--you can imagine what it smelled like when I got home from work yesterday and thought I'd reheat myself some Kung-Pao Chicken) and when I mentioned this to my roommate I learned that our super quit!! Yes, this is the super who, when he came to repair the leaky ceiling in Sarah's room, pinioned me against the door and wouldn't let go of my hand and kept kissing up my arm and telling me he wouldn't leave until I kissed his mouth. So I'll admit that I'm not exactly unhappy to learn he's gone (with his poor Albanian wife and their six children, who all lived one floor beneath us!!). But I'll also admit I don't feel supergreat about living in a dilapidated roach-infested 150-year-old walk up that doesn't have a super to at least provide some kind of structural maintenance. Humm. Nor do I feel supergreat about not having a refrigerator. This is just going to reinforce the poor barely-post-college take-out-driven eating habits I have sheepishly tried to hide from the world up until now. Rats rats rats. (Yes, I've seen one of those, too, although it was just a baby. A mouse, I'd venture to call it.)

All right, since there's nothing to eat here there's no point in sitting around. I'm going to Queens, where all the food is at.