perfect apartment = not so perfect

I woke up early this morning, at six thirty, my soul in limbo between the book of life and the book of . . . not life, as my ceiling poured forth a shower of rainwater. Still dark, I rushed around frantically for a pot or a bowl to put under the leak. I mean leaks. Two. And then I went back to sleep on my gigantic, orange, velvet couch.

The manager of my apartment is so nice, I'm thinking of falling in love with him. He came upstairs to check out the leaks MINUTES after I called him (I waited until the more humane hour of nine), and then he immediately went out and purchased a plastic tarp to save my carpet. He made an appointment with a roofer and a painter and assured me that he would cover the cleaning costs if any of my furniture or other stuff got soaked. My old landlord would have waited a few days before bringing over a bucket to sit under the hole.

Here is where I admit that I am completely INSANE and still suffering post-traumatic stress, that when I first awoke to the dripping, I thought an animal had gotten into my apartment and was PEEING on the carpet. And for ten whole seconds, all I could do was curse, WHO LET A FUCKING DOG INTO MY BEDROOM??!??