Autobiographically Too Flat

I'm a little concerned about my housemates. Well, maybe "concerned" is a little too strong a word, since that implies some sort of amount of caring, or worry. And I'm not at all worried if they're ok or whatever. And to be perfectly honest, I don't particularly care - it's actually kind of nice to come home to a really big apartment and not have to see anyone for the rest of the night if I so decide. Just wish I had some paint to do the remaining wall in my room.

Right, but I guess I haven't yet said why I'm (some other word than)concerned about those two guys. Well, I haven't seen them in two full days now, and today we're pushing on a third day. I recognize that we keep very different hours generally (neither of them have regular jobs, they're both party guys as far as I can tell) and so maybe it's not so surprising that I haven't seen them. But I also haven't seen any evidence of them being around:

No cigarette butts in the downstairs ashtray

No dishes in the sink

The top layer of the garbage can has only my garbage

I haven't found either of them passed out on the couch with the TV on when I'm getting ready in the morning to go to work

No midget porn in the DVD player

You know, all the usual tell-tale signs of life of graduated art students. So I wonder where they are. Notice though that I'm not making any particular effort to find out - At least one of them has a cell phone that I haven't called. The way I figure it, don't rock the boat: The longer they are out of the apartment, the longer it's going to take for them to move out, which means I get more time to find some housemates that I know I can tolerate living with. Any call or active attempt to get information about this thing will only increase the chance that one of them will come home.

But since I don't want to be completely apathetic about the entire thing, what I did this morning was to take some scotch tape and a few hairs off my head; put the hairs across the doorway and taped them there. If I come home and the hairs are broken, I'll know one of those kids was in the apartment (learned that trick from Stephen Kings Misery, thank you very much). Of course, the information I'm going to gain by finding some broken hairs on the door isn't going to change my life one way or the other. I refer you to the first paragraph of this missive.

Anyway - thanks for coming back and continuing to read the blog. Keep up and see what happens! (Unless something interesting happens tonight, tommorrow entry will be a reflection on my first day in the apartment, which for some reason found me running through a cemetary).