Gah.

So due to my ennui in the last several days, I have been embracing sleep earlier and earlier. Last night I happily dozed off at 11.30 or so, woke up about an hour later, realized that i had forgotten to take out my contacts, proceeded to do so, and fell back asleep, locking the door to my room (often the door stays unlocked: only 2 apartments in the building, we know/like the neighbour girls, during the day we leave the hall doors open, cuz it's a railroad flat of sorts, and if J. comes over after I am asleep, I don't want to have to get out of bed, he has keys to the downstairs, and if I know he is coming over, I just leave my room open so he can let himself in). But last night I was not expecting company, so I locked the door. At about 4.30 in the morning I wake up because someone is rattling my doorknob. Inductive logic leads me to assume that it is, after all, J. I sleepily get out of bed and start fucking around with the stuck lock and opening the door, when I hear footsteps. "Maybe he went to see if I am in the living room," I think. I open the door. Inductive logic--zero, unidientified person rattling my door--one. I hear footsteps going downstairs, and go up to the railing, conscisously aware of the horror movie elements, such as dark stairs where the lightbulb burned out weeks ago, my white nightgown with lilac and pink flowers all over it, the echoes in the aforementioned dark stairwell. The footsteps cease at one point, but I don't hear the downstairs door slam shut. I decide to avoid the horror-movie chiche and not descent down the dark stairs. For good measure I yell "people downstairs!" and, hearing nothing, go back into my room, lock my door and start knocking on J.Mu's door. She is entertaining a friend, let's call him Fabulous. They are wondering what's going on and invite me in. I move the barricade of stuff that is propped up against the door between our rooms, and cautiously make my way in there, and explain the situation. We think about it and decide to call the cops. constintina is not going to be happy, I sigh. I feel very bad because constintina has mono, and really, really does not like cops. I mean, nobody likes cops, except totalvirility's sister, who looooves cops, and wants to marry cops, and dates cops who try to make her take polygraph tests about how many men she had slept with. But regardless, I feel bad because constintina is sick and probably does not feel like dealing with NYPD representatives. Neither do I, but it seems like the smart thing to do, and after doing a quick once-over of the apartment and putting certain things out of sight, J.Mu calls our local police department. Despite the fact that the station is literally two and a half blocks from where we live, we spend the next 15 minutes hanging out on J.Mu's bed, smoking, looking out of the window for the cop car, and commenting on how they are obviously not ranking this as an emergency. J.Mu is all like: "we are three girls with a possible perpetrator in the house! they are taking their sweet time! and they tell people not to keep firearms." I start thinking about firearms, and how it would be a bad idea because inevitably someone would be compelled to use them on the Slumlord. See earlier entry about his logorrhea-afflected ghost haunting our apartment forever, whining about open windows and his heating bill. So, finally the officers of the law get here; one is obviously way lazier than the other, because when Officer # 2 proposes checking out the roof (not a bad idea), Officer # 1 dismisses the idea on the basis that if anyone got out through the roof, the roof door would be propped open. Not necessarily, Officer # 1, not necessarily, but if you won't agree with your partner, what chance to I have of piercing your laziness, especially with my flower-patterned white nightgown that screams "victim" covered up by my tough-seeming cat-burgler-looking black zip-up? in the middle of all of this, J. Mu sees that our downstairs neightbour Mlle is passed out with the door open. J.Mu tries to consult with her about the situation, but Mlle is not conscious, much less lucid. After the cops leave, we decide that it is likely that Mlle came home fucked up and went to our floor instead of her own, although it's still a mystery as to why she would have rattled my door, because the layout of the apartments is identical, and her room would have corresponded to J. Mu's room. I guess we'll find out today. Oh, and the best part was, when the cop rattled my door, saw that it was completely dilapidated and yielded significantly under pressure, and told me that I needed to get the door changed. I replied that I knew that, and that the wooden oak door that he was seeing standing on its lonely own in the hallway was the door I removed from my closet, that The Slumlord had promised to switch with mine back in the summer. "It's November," the non-lazy officer astutely pointed out. "You need to change that door. Do it yourself and bill him for it," he suggests. "You see, my landlord really really sucks," I sigh. Then I ask them if they are going to have to write a report about this. They say no. I wish they did because then I would ask for a copy and wave it into the Slumlord's face, because, despite his almost Thoreau-ian disregard for authority where any fiscal fines or responsibilities are involved, judging by his annual 7-week long trip to Puerto Rico right after tax day and his continuted game of cat-and-mouse with the EPA that keeps leaving summons notices for him at our doorstep, maybe if it is the opinion of NYPD that my door is not safe and needs to be replaced, maybe I would finally get a different door. Probably not though. Vade retro, Slumlord.