Homeless at my house

My apartment is just great. Here are some great things about it:

--Last week, it snowed in my kitchen. Above my stove is some sort of vent which is professionally covered by a piece of cardboard and some black duct tape. During a windstorm, I noticed it was getting perilously cold and investigated the cause. I saw my cat frolicking playfully as the snow came through the vent. All I could do was sigh and apply another layer of duct tape.

--I haven't rearranged my furniture in months, but I still find new and interesting ways in which to stub each toe with regularity. In these delightful situations, I hit the ground and scream a litany of profanities which invariably draws the attention of my landlady, "Pam." Pam is a great person; she cares about things and people without the slightest hint of cynicism and wants to spread the good news, as it were. But there is a dark streak to her, as evidenced whenever I fuck up around here: she invites me over to see her birds. It's one of the only times she isn't talking incessantly about the shit happening at her job or around the building or crazy tenants in 14. We just kind of stand there and look at her birds. I never know how to get out of these situations. It's me, Pam, and her birds, and after a length of time she deems appropriate, she says "goodbye" and I make the excruciatingly long walk back to my apartment. I live directly across from her.

--Laundry happens on Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings. I'm already up for the cartoons, so why not multitask? I don't get ready or anything. I roll out of bed and gather shit up and go downstairs. Two weeks ago, Pam was giving the keys to the new girl moving in to the apartment near the laundry room. In a desperate gambit to avoid a long conversation with Pam, I ran from the staircase to the laundry room door only to nearly bowl them both over. In her infinite wisdom, Pam takes this opportunity to introduce me to the new girl. There I stand, carrying a hamper full of underwear and bath towels, hair crazy from the night before, wearing my Zoobaz with the hole in the crotch so large that if I wasn't wearing undies my penis could unfurl out of them like a mighty sail, and I take this moment to say "Hey, if you need anything, I live up in 8." I have not seen this woman since that fateful encounter. If by some chance you are reading this, girl who lives below me, I promise not murder you or anything. I'm pretty sure I won't!