12:57 pm | 10 March 2003 | ice age

Okay, i was going to tell you all some terrific ideas i have been having in my last entry, but then we had to EVACUATE THE BUILDING 'cause there was a bomb threat. And it was called in at 2:30 but we didn't get told until four. And it was sucky.

Additionally, the parking-lot guy wouldn't give me my $2 college-employee discount because my ticket wasn't stamped, and i was all [icily] [kind of like Kristin Scott-Thomas], "And i suppose i am to just trot back into an explosive-rigged building and get it stamped?" and he glared at me with his pinched, baleful Nigerian-parking-lot-attendant face and said violently, "Lady! No stamp, no discount for you!" And it sucked, too.

Then Saturday morning a guy from the electric company came to read the meter and needed to check my appliances so he came up to my apartment and then he realized my furnace is in a small second closet in my bedroom. And he shook his head. And he said, "It's against regulation to have a furnace in your bedroom, I must disconnect it." And then he proceeded to not only turn the little gas-flange to off, but he unscrewed a whole series of pipes while i stood behind him, hungover, melacholy, wringing hands in my stupid pajamas (it was seven a.m.). So i called my landlord, Joe, and when the fucker finally called back he was all "We have permits and carbon monoxide detectors, it's okay...but i can't come turn your heat back on until tonight." Because he is a lazy fuck who lives in Elk Grove and can't be bothered to drive into the city. And it is 13�F out. And HE STILL HASN'T COME TO TURN MY HEAT ON. Bastard.

What did i do to deserve this? I was home yesterday with the oven cranked to 500� and its door wiiiiide open, huddled on the couch with a blanket, watching frost creep up the windows, inexorably, creepily, and began to not-so-irrationally fear that i would be found after the spring thaw, fully preserved, and then my frozen, distorted carcass would be the centerfold in National Geographic, and furthermore i'd probably die doing something embarassing, like micromanaging my haircut or watching Finding Forrester or something. God damn it. And this really helps my mood, too. Fucking great. The dog is here at work today, sitting in an armchair, glaring at me mournfully because i can't pet her every minute. My stomach hurts. Fuck you, Joe.