A friend just told me he has so much heat in his apartment he’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I, on the other hand, have on two coats.
There’s so much snow coming down I just may change my name to Heidi. Believe me when I say, it’s no day to be without heat.
They’ve recently sold my building to a mysterious buyer. I keep thinking it’s Donald Trump but then again, he likes being in the forefront…the ham with bad hair.
Meanwhile, everything is falling apart.
Where before I could at least get my landlady on the phone, now we have a number no one answers.
The only alternative is calling the city to complain. They take down your info asking…do you wish to leave your name or remain anonymous. Where before I’d be the Mata Hari of complainers, now I’m Norma Rae shaking in my boots…and not because I’m afraid either…I’m fucking freezing, pardon my French.
By the way, what the hell does that mean, pardon my French? I’ve always wondered. But back to the matter at hand.
I had a little tryst not long ago with a Scotsman who recently came back to town, so after dinner, rather than his hotel, I asked him to my place for coffee-and, if you know what I mean.
This guy hails from a country that has anything but mild winters, but after attempting to get cozy amid my collection of Polo pillows said, “Way dun’t we graybb a caybb to may hatel whar et’s wamer.”
Romance, on the rocks…with extra socks.
Even as I write I’m in my down coat with three layers underneath. It looks as if I’ve gained weight.
Clearly they’re trying to get us all to move, something I’m not about to do.
Time to get tough….put my rent in escrow…get a lawyer…or call my cousin Tony in Staten Island to come talk to the Donald or whomever my new landlord may be.
She could use a trim.