Thank You For Smoking

I live in a non-smoking building. You would think that would mean that no one would smoke inside the building. You would think.

Evidently, most tenants who do smoke seem to forget the go-outside-in-the-pouring-rain-to-smoke rule. Evidently, some tenants have a note from their doctor allowing them to smoke in their non-smoking apartments. Despite the fact that smoking is bad for your health and doctors know that, doctors scribble their names on slips of paper to allow a lot of people in my building to smoke indoors--smoke cigarettes, oh, and my favorite, pot. Evidently, not smoking in your non-smoking apartment may cause you to go off your meds and do bad things. Or at least weird things.

I walked into the Recycling & Trash Room the other day to, you know, recycle and trash something, and as soon as I walked in, the woman who was already trashing something turned toward me suddenly and snapped, "Oh, what now?" She dropped her bag of trash, which could easily have been a bag of dog doo or her own doo for all I know, and ran out the door. Not long after, she returned to retrieve her bag of doo doo and said, "Hup! Wuh? Wull---uhhh. Tsk. Kuh. Mm." Then ran out the door. I noticed her a little while later walking up and down the hallway, back and forth. Eventually, she got on the elevator. She got off the elevator. No, on. No, off. Mr. Karin said gently like a good MSW, "She's attending to other voices and may be off her meds. Might wanna give her a little extra space." Ya think?

Evidently, I have discovered, I live on the smoking floor. (What does that mean about me?) The three apartments closest to mine are occupied by people I have yet to see, but whom I often hear yelling at the walls and whose sleep patterns I have identified by their chain-smoking habits. Up at 7:30am. To bed around 12:30am. Smoking like a chimney every waking hour.

I love this. No really, I do. I mean, now I don't have to actually take up smoking. I figure I'm getting in at least a pack a week in second-hand smoke. Saves me money. Don't have to buy cigarettes for myself. This is great.

A Photo Essay of My New Digs

This is my kitchen. Notice the pretty wall color. I love it.



You can't see it from here, but the stove has two, that's two (2) large burners. I'm living large, folks.






This is how it worked before.





This is how it works now.





It's magic. I put dirty dishes in, turn a knob, wait a while, and clean dishes come out! It's magically terrific!


















This is my luxurious dining area. I dine luxuriously here.




This is my spacious living room. I live spaciously here . Oh, does it look like I sleep here, too? Only until the bed I have on order arrives. Until then, the futon couch seems to be serving just fine.

I have quite a view.










Uptown.












Downtown.







My desk.




This is where all the magic happens. Right, except for the magic that happens in the kitchen!

This is my bedroom. No magic happens in here.