At this point, I am a full week and a half behind where I should be in apartment blogging. I have something of an excuse. Well, a couple. The first is that I've been pretty sick for the past few days (which I'll probably get to in the next few paragraphs), and the other is that, to be perfectly honest when it comes down to writing a blog entry or watching another episode of Sealab 2021, the fignuts rule.

I am pretty convinced that there is a squatter in my room. I haven't seen him or her, but I have collected some pretty clear evidence. First of all, someone keeps filling my laundry basket with my clothes. I'll do all my laundry, and not two weeks will pass before the entire thing is filled to the top, and I end up having to hang up filthy shirts because they won't fit in the hamper.

Second is the fact that the squatter is playing silly buggers all through the night, banging on my radiator like he's he's in Iron Butterfly and this is his bit in Inagadadavida. But without the dope changes and hard-hitting guitar licks. It's a huge pain in the ass, to be honest. I'm having enough trouble sleeping, what with the fact that my room has reached near Saharan dryness and heat levels. The plant that Arin (Ben's gf) gave me (which is called a Bromeliad, I think. Although maybe not) which is supposed to need watering every two weeks is a weak dessicated collection of highly flammable greenery. I don't think it's going to last very long (but I don't suppose that comes as a surprise to anybody either).

So in trying to decide what to do with this guy, I figured that I have to drive him out. In the zeitgeist, I've decided that chemical warfare is the way to go - hence my illness this past week. I wanted to fill the apartment with enough dangerous bacteria that there was no way any foreign body could survive. So I've been coughing, sneezing, and nose-running on just about everything in my apartment. I realize that maybe this is a little unfair to Sam, but he hasn't been around much this week, so what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Or at least the trail won't lead back to me. Incidentally, being sick is so much worse than not being sick. My muscles ached, my throat hurt, I was coughing so much that it actually drove tears to my eyes. Bitchbitchbitch. Last night I tried to teach my body that it didn't have it that bad by watching Requiem for a Dream. Could be worse, was the message: You could be a smack addict with a missing arm. I'm not sure the message got across, since I woke up this morning feeling crappy again.

I had missed a couple of days at work. I wasn't planning on it, but on Tuesday when I came in, my coworkers were rubbing down everything that I touched with alcohol. Figured that was a sign that they'd prefer not to get sick this season, so I figured a little discretion was best. So in preparation for the imminent transit strike in NYC, I telecommuted on Wednesday and Thursday. Turns out I am incredibly more productive when I'm home, even though this means that I wake up at 11:30 (due entirely to illness, I'm sure) and take frequent "What's in the fridge" breaks. Started and finished (almost) a program that I assigned myself on Monday, and made some good progress on another that I had been working on. This is in contrast to today, when I got into work on time and have accomplished just about nothing except this blog entry and networking a couple of iMacs (actually one iMac and one G4). I might be the only person for whom the transit strike is going to be a great boon. Oh, me and the MTA.

Yeahyeahyeah, I know this wasn't funny. It's been a while, I'm out of practice. Give a guy a break.