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After an incredibly frustrating day at work, I went to MoC’s, only to get into an argument with her. I know better – I really do. She’s having a mini-brainfuckitis episode where things don’t always make sense to her and she feels weak and tired and cranky. And I didn’t pick up on it fast enough, which led to the argument. I let her win to save my sanity and then I went home.

And found my cats laying in the middle of the living room with their tongues hanging out because it was 400 degrees in my apartment. (The beasts are fine, they were just conserving energy and laying directly beneath the ceiling fan).

I checked the thermostat. I lied. It wasn’t 400 degrees, but only 95. GAH! I turned the A/C off and then back on … nothing. I turned it to the “ON” position instead of “Auto.” I checked the breaker. I went outside to see if it was running – it was.

I called the landlord and said, “Hey Mark. I’m melting. I mean, I need to lose some weight, but I’d really prefer to do it by watching my diet instead of sweating to death.” He thought that was funny. Because he was in a cool house.

He’s sending someone by tomorrow morning. Yay. But that means I have to leave work, come back home and wait for him to work his magic. Which is fine – I mean, at least I have a job that will let me do that and it’s not like I have to drive 30 miles back to work. Still, it jacks up my day and I’m swamped right now.

Looks like tonight I’ll be sleeping with all the windows open – which means the crackhead next door could slash my screen, crawl inside and kill me in my feverish sleep. And that’s not totally out of the realm of possibility. He pounded on my downstairs neighor’s door at 3 am, thinking his mother had locked him out. Yay, neighbor boy. Yay, neighbor mom. I liked it better when the drug dealers were living there last summer. There was a lot of traffic on the street, but they kept the noise down and didn’t piss me off too much.

Sorry, this is what happens to me when I get overheated.

No wonder I can’t get a date …

*The title is much funnier when you know my name is Patricia. And that I don’t really like the name Patty. Or patty melts, for that matter.