I have class tonight and before jetting off I had more pressing matters to attend to, namely the odor wafting from my swamp of dirty dishes and the garbage I guess I discarded a rat carcass in a week ago (Not really, but that's how it smelled!).
It's okay, the biochemical crisis has been averted, but it's really just a small dent in the grooming this apartment very badly needs.
Living like a rock star is not always sanitary.
Damn the fucking time change!
I consume all my meals in the American fashion: on the couch in front of the television. If I use a plate and not a paper towel burrito, I balance it on my knees or on the arm of the couch so I can check my email as well (Multi-tasking!).
Instead of just nuking a Lean Cuisine pizza, I had lovingly preheat the oven, no small task for a stoner. To my unrefined palette, this was gourmet dining.
So I set the plate on the arm, pulled my laptop onto my knees so I could hit refresh on my email. The plate was teetering on the edge of tragedy, and I suddenly had a vision of it falling and flipping extravagantly, sending the pizza face down onto the carpet I have not vacuumed since I moved in.
In my arrogance, I ignored the vision.
As I reached for the remote control, fate could not resist the temptation, and in a moment of hazy misjudgment, I knocked over the plate. As I had envisioned, it leaped magnificently up into the air before crashing down, pizza and all, with an unceremonious Splat! and spray of marinara blood.
If I recall correctly, I do believe I even uttered a cry of anguish. A great wailing and gnashing of teeth, as they say.
Oh Cassandra and her curse!
I really should put my psychic powers to better use.
Writing March 9 2009
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