My heat is off.
I’m here wrapped in a blanket with sweats over my pajamas.
I look like Geronimo about to run track.
We’ve been actually lucky lately, the boiler holding its own. But like anything old and weary, it just can’t help itself when it finally lets off steam, no pun intended.
I hate being cold. I can deal with heat and humidity like a lizard much better than shaking in my Uggs.
After cremating my relationship with my neighbor Trudy, I really have no recourse but to stay here and burrow beneath as many coats and covers I can come up with.
I texted the new building manager who has yet to get back to me.
Georgio doesn’t quite get he might be summoned by police because one of his tenants is freeze dried like a raisin while he’s nice and toasty at his condo in Westchester.
I of course am the representative of the building for no other reason than I’M FUCKING FREEZING.
I never fully understand the complacency of others. The girl next door who used to have loud sex and has recently moved, would just sleep in 6 coats without even as much as a whimper though paying a high rent.
I’d yell at her, “Stefanie, call the fucking landlord…complain…we pay rent…heat is in our lease goddammit.”
She’d look at me sheepishly and say,”Oh, I don’t want to cause problems. It’il be spring before we know it.”
This is when I’d crack open the nearest beer.
What are people so afraid of? We have rights. This isn’t Appalachia. We’re not coal miners without a union.
We’re New Yorkers with mace and rent stabilized apartments.
My typing I will say, had to be edited because my fingers though wrapped in fingerless gloves, have been slightly hindered my vowels veering to the left.
But like a dog with a bone, I stayed on Georgio who promised the boiler men were en route.
And yeah, I’ve heard that one before, just never on New Year’s Eve.