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Somebody Save Me

A few days ago the boiler in my apartment building decided to commit suicide. It didn't go quietly. David woke me at about three a.m. complaining of a headache. The apartment was filled with a horrid stench, something akin to burning oil or rubber. We have steam heat (read: free) and I just chalked it up to none of my business; thinking perhaps someone was cooking something foul or just burning something or someone in his or her fireplace.

I went back to sleep after giving the boyfriend some Advil. Big, BIG mistake.

At five a.m. we were woken by smoke, our neighbor pounding on our door, and the sound of several fire trucks. I gathered our wallets, personal papers, and anything I could carry (read: all my Kenneth Cole shirts) while David grabbed Miso and we bolted to the courtyard.

I looked up and coming from the top of the building was a stack of smoke so thick it resembled white cotton candy.

It turns out the boiler did indeed die and the landlord hired an awesome repairman because we were without heat and water for only one day.

Yet, dearest readers, all is still not well.

The radiators kicked back on for so long and with such force that some of the steam release valves have cracked, paint has bubbled on some of the walls, and my clothing smells like, well, a furnace repairman.

I wonder if I can deduct the dry cleaning bill from my as of yet unpaid rent.

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