|
Saturday, Jan. 03, 2004 / 10:04 p.m. ~Injected With a Poison~ I've lived in this apartment almost seven years. That right there is unbelievable, breaks all sorts of records, seems incomprehensible, truly, unfathomable, and other words that indicate disbelief, in a seeming sort of way. And, in this time, these almost seven years, unless it was totally and expressly without my knowledge, there has been no attempt at indoor 'pest control'. I see the occasional 'palmetto bug', i.e. large Southern style cockroach, usually in warm months, and silverfish throughout the year, as there is paper everywhere in here, and they thrive on that. Sometimes ants, usually in Summer, and I squish them and feel terrible afterward. Sometimes odd bugs that move quickly, and if they are small I squish them too, telling them I'm sorry as I do it, asking for forgiveness. Please, I'll make it quick, you're going to a better place, Heaven awaits you, stuff like that. The cockroaches get the patented 'catch and release' treatment, and anything large does as well. The larger the more likely to be released into a more suitable atmosphere. But, alas, in nearly seven full years, that's about it. No infestation, no problems, nada, niente, nothing. Oh, but I leave my abode today to find written notice of a general unit by unit pest control extravaganza, i.e. 'project', to begin on Monday and last two days, with the 'pest control technician' to spend 'about ten minutes' in my apartment. TEN MINUTES? Do you know how long ten minutes is? Have you been in here? Where is he going to spray? Will he 'spray'? Is it a spray? Every inch of wall space is occupied by bookcases and odd pieces of furniture, there are stacks of things, catalogs, newspapers, books, stuff, all over the floor, not to mention cat toys, cat beds, cats even! "We are asking that any pets be put away." Like where? In the closet? Where? I ask you, where? I'm to call if I have questions, but I fear I'd freak them out with all the questions I have. This is an environmentally friendly apartment here, I seldom use any product harsher than Windex, the occasional "formula 409" (what the hell is that stuff anyway?) when I clean out the litter box. Yes, yes, soap would be more appropriate. But insecticide? Egad, that's straight poison. I don't want that shit in here, but it's in my lease agreement, which I read in full, all small print included, last time I signed. I hadn't noticed this clause before, but it's there now, and they're making good. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if it makes the cats ill? What if I lock them in the bedroom, will they skip the bedroom? Don't they need to concentrate more on areas with water sources, i.e. the bathroom and kitchen? I don't want insecticide in my apartment, did I mention that? What can I do? Feign allergies? Argue? Whine? Bitch? Moan? Cry? Cry on the phone whilst bitching and moaning in a very whiny manner? Monday? Or Tuesday? Two day 'project', and why on a weekday when I'm at work, why must they always stomp around in here with muddy shoes whilst I'm at work? It's supposed to rain, their shoes will be gross, and will it be a 'they' or a 'he'? Who will it be? Will he steal anything? Will he look around, will he open my drawers? Ten minutes? Egad. I hate this, hate this, hate this, truly. And put the cats away?? Again with the how and the where. Again, ??? Monday. I'll be at work, if I call they may already be here. Poor Norman, look at her lying there on the rug right now, all unsuspecting and everything, all pre-poison spray and everything. She has no idea. What if this shortens her little life span? What if we all get sick? Did I mention I don't want insecticide in my living space? Help? I have nothing else, just a lot of angst. So, he read what I wrote yesterday, and why? He said he wouldn't. Was it bad? I thought it was nice, I was happy, dammit. I'm not allowed to be happy, to meet someone new and be happy about it, him. Fuck. I shopped for calendars today, half off, and they're in the car, must remember to go get them. Oh, I bought yet another Thai cookbook, one of B&N's sale books, as I cannot seem to own enough of them, and I have yet to actually cook anything Thai. And an Aries horoscope book, written by one dead Sydney Omarr. Guy is nothing if not prolific. Went to a MALL before that, and was nearly scared out of my wits. Those places are just freaky frightening. Malls. Brrr.... how do people actually go there regularly? You could live there. They have vibrating easy chairs. And food. And chairs and benches and plants and artificial air, and stuff for sale, and stuff ON sale, and STUFF, STUFF, STUFF, it's bizarre. Gladys just brought me her sock, which I washed in yesterday's laundry, or was that the day before? It's all a blur now, but I washed it, and she brought it to bed last night, and she was awake all night, up and down and all around, and I dreamed heavy dreams, I was groggy, and it's too warm lately, way too, and she doesn't know about the BUG POISON either, but what if she gets sick? What if they die? What if I die? What if the spiders die? I forgot about the spiders, I like the spiders... Oh, right, the Mall. I was looking for a particular store that used to sell a particularly lovely 'French-milled' soap, a soap I was madly sensually craving, but the store exists no longer. I could not wait to get out of there. Wasted time speedwalking through a Mall, then calendars at the 'box store' B&N down the street, and I looked at every one, then found a bunch on the floor, looked at those, struck gold with my annual Greenpeace calendar, of which there was only ONE!!! I'm happy. Oh. Wait. I said I'm happy. Because of material gain? What about love? What about loving? Passion? No, I have only calendars. I bought about six. I think. Good god. Some for my cubicle, a small lighthouse calendar, not what I wanted, but of the small variety, the nicest - skip the Dr Seuss, too commercial now with the film. And a pulp movie poster calendar, why? I'm a bad mad impulse shopper. And I loved being in a bookstore, this is why I never go. I straighten their stock, find myself wanting to rearrange things, and put everything where it belongs. And oh, oh, oh, found the 50th anniversary Playboy issue, still on sale. Yay, and yay. Can't wait to unwrap that one. I haven't bought a Playboy in years. Christmas cards for next December too. Must get bag from car. Must call apartment mgmt tomorrow, they must be at other office, must ask questions, let them know I'm panicked, ask to speak to someone At The Top, the Manager, who is the Manager after all? Why? Poison, it's poison. Put my animals AWAY? I just want to be happy, that's all. That's all. Whatever that entails, that's it, okay? Oh, and I went to a movie today too, "Barbarian Invasions", a French Canadian thing about a dying man in his last days, being happy and rowdy with his friends and family, and the son who enables it all financially. Lovely, sad, sad, funny, sad, sad. Cost of the War in Iraq
(JavaScript Error)
Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
  |