I have just spent the past three hours prostrate on the floor outside the apartment that was once inhabited by a group of what I will generously call gypsies. (I documented the heartwarming tale of their occupancy here and here.)
Why did I do this? Because whomever is moving in — and I hope with all the hope in my Lane Hope Chest that it’s the stylish guy named Stan whom I met a few weeks ago, who told me he was moving in but whom I haven’t seen since — is having the floors varnished or shellacked or treated with some sort substance that, if one were inclined to inhale deeply for several hours while lying face down (that’s what “prostrate” means, kids) (and I know you giggled, thinking I was referring to my “prostate”, which I had removed years ago with the rest of my masculine paraphernalia) in close proximity to its source, would provide the same sort of effect one would get from, oh, let’s just say, ECSTACY!
So that’s what I did this morning. If you ever have the chance — and the time! — to do the same thing, I suggest you take full advantage of the opportunity. You won’t be sorry. You will be relieved of some of your precious, hard-earned brain cells, but that doesn’t really matter because they’re rotting away anyway from your steady diet of inertia and reality TV consumption.
Spread the word.