2001-06-14 - 2:03 p.m.

(Begun around 10 am today, this is a much better attempt at an essay. Please enjoy, if it doesn't make you vomit. It will be added to/finished presently.)

Last night, an intruder slipped into my apartment.

I had a strange premonition when I unlocked the door that something was amiss, that someone had broken into my apartment. Nonsense, I told myself, as I climbed the stairs up to my little over-the-garage abode. There was no sign of a break-in, the apartment was quiet, and my cat, though she was meowing incessantly and looked slightly spooked was alive - any violent criminal surely would have done her in by now if s/he were waiting to do the same to me. Had the place been ransacked, I probably would not have noticed, not being a very neat member of the single gal set. The one thing that was noticeably out of place was one high-heeled mule (either the left or the right, I'm not sure which, but I remember distinctly that it was one or the other) that had been carelessly kicked off at the top of the stairs. It had been carelessly kicked, knocked, or pushed down several stairs. I didn't think much of this. My kitten, Miss Hattie Hatbox McSneezy-Pellechia, has a habit of playing on the stairs, and of leaving her toys there. (And of leaving my toys there, as she has somehow concluded that anything that is mine is also hers. She is very like a human child in that way. Her particular favorite of my things is a tiny pink cat animal given to me as a Valentine by my boyfriend, Gus, which she carries around in her mouth, and which, thank goodness, is very easy to clean. Other possessions of mine she's commandeered include my yellow pillowcase, and Psyduck, the only Pokemon character I will be a fan of because he, too, is a bit psychic, and, like me, has a constant headache. Psyduck is a bit to bulky for her tiny jaws, so she must assert her ownership of him by hiding him under the dresser, along with other stuffed animals and the like. The only collection of mine that remains entirely intact is my absolute favorite: my grouping of Hello Kitty dolls. For some reason, Hatbox has never bothered with these. Perhaps she sees Hello Kitty as a rival, or perhaps she's smart enough not to mess with them. She may chase specks of dust as if her life depended on it, but she knows what side her bread is buttered on.)

Regardless of whether Hatbox, or I, or someone else served as the primary cause for the shoe's inhabitance of my third-from-the-top step, it struck me as oddly fortuitous that, of all things, what had been knocked out of place was something that could, in a pinch, be used semi-effectively as a self-defense weapon. But even though I wielded it in that combat-ready "bring it on; I can take you, fool" sort of way as I checked the closets and corners with little to no fear, I had already given up on my premonition. My premonitions have about a 50% reliability rate, and I do a better job of predicting extraordinarily stupid, useless things than anything else.

Example: I am at work, and a random vision of some mildly talented stand-up comedian flashes into my consciousness. Well, you can bet your bonnet that that night, either HBO or Comedy Central will air a special featuring that same comedian, which you will probably opt not to watch. I don't blame you. Or, while driving through another state and listening to a friend's mixed tape, I begin to long for a brief respite from the "eclectic" mix of Styx, funk, and that "Life is a Highway" song that became car-commercial mood music long before it's time. "Something, anything but this," I tell myself, but it's a lie. What I really want, more than anything, is to hear my favorite song in the world: Perry Como's "Papa loves Mambo." But that is not going to happen, until, of course, two or three songs later, when my friend announces, "The song after this is one I think you'll really like. I'm not sure who it's by, maybe Dean Martin or somebody, but I think you'll like it." And before it even begins to play, I'm humming along. Ba-da-da bump-bump. But fire? Flood? Famine? Never see it coming. I unsuccessfully predict the fiery crash of every aircraft I board. Does that count for anything? Not that I have a problem with that particular losing streak; I'd rather like it not to end, really. Beyond making me not very proud of my psychic abilities, it has given me enough reason to remain something of an optimist regarding disastrous occurrences. Try it some time: every now and then, make up your mind firmly that, no matter what you do, a violent, bloody death is just over the horizon. Then get to the horizon and (this is the important part) DON'T DIE. It feels great!

But to get back to the intruder. The sinking feeling that there was something in my apartment waiting to get me melted away almost as quickly as it had arrived, and I proceeded to feed my cat and readjust the air conditioner. The unit has a tendency to shift an inch or two out of place and rest on the window, making the place hot and stuffy, even for mid-June in Pittsburgh. This time, it has separated from the frame considerably more than it usually does, and refitting it was no easy task, thanks to Miss Hattie's insistence that she had to sit on top of the filter at that moment. I was too busy heaving the air conditioner back into a position where it would be effective to try to ascertain why, other than the fact that it was hot, my cat was being such a fuzzy pain in the ass all of a sudden. I then took a bath without event, donned my robe, and sat down with a packet of pink stationary. I spent last weekend at the home of my boyfriend's parents, and wanted to write a note to his mother thanking her for all her hospitality because 1.) I am a sweet and thoughtful girlfriend (right Gus?) and 2.) Gus' mom, in addition to being a supreme hostess, is a kind and benevolent soul who will not only tolerate a girl who writes letters exclusively on pastel stationary with coordinating sparkly ink, but actually like her and believe she is a good match for her son. I don't know how I got so lucky. I guess somebody up there likes me and my metallic gel pens!

Unfortunately, I did not get a chance put one to rose-festooned paper before I realized that there was a very good reason Hatbox was jumping four feet in the air and desperately trying to climb the walls (as opposed to the mediocre reason she often acts like this: she is a deranged, delusional feline who gets great pleasure out of jumping four feet in the air, and truly believes she can scale drywall and plaster.) There was something flying around the room. And when I say something, I am not referring to a being of the fly, moth , or bumblebee variety. Something large was circling my head.

"Well, no wonder Hatbox is acting so funny," I thought to myself. "There's a bird in here. She hardly ever gets to chase birds!" And though she chased and chased the poor winged animal, there were no cute chirps, or scared sqwaks, or any other typical bird sounds.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: