Well, now my apartment is trying to kill me.

Or, more accurately, it is trying to cook me.

I thought that the Bleeding Bathroom Walls of Doom were bad. I thought the vendetta that most of my items of furniture carry against me had me on edge. Those are nothing.

Like most apartments in Chicago, the heat comes free. That's very good. Unlike a lot of apartments in Chicago, I can't control when the heat comes on or off. That's very bad.

This particular brand of heat is steam heat. I have an old radiator that likes to make a lot of noise when it kicks in. My only recourse against the radiators whimsical onslaught of heat is opening my windows to let the cold winter air balance out everything. The radiator especially enjoys when I do this, as it watches carefully to determine when I go to sleep, and then stops producing heat for the rest of the night.

Basically, I have two choices. I can wake up extremely cold and extremely frozen, or I can wake up as I did this morning: Dehydrated, parched, and partially broiled. With a little garlic salt and some butter, the rescue workers who discover me will have discovered a feast.

This is why a cover up will surround my death, I assure you.

Here's something interesting: A very clearly deluded girl recently told me that she thought that she, herself, was funnier than me. I was shocked and apalled. She eventually issued something of a retraction. This calls to mind Chief Wiggum, who asked the immortal and now all too relevant question: Why are the pretty ones always insane?

This morning, during my break for math class, I was given some attitude by this guy who thinks he's all cool because he works the coffee bar at school. His manner was generally haughty and not at all pleasant. He was extremely skinny and wearing a Weezer t-shirt.

First of all, because of his attitude, I mock his skinniness: Human chests are not supposed to be concave. He was one of those guys who looked like he was collapsing inward on himself. There are a contingent of these fellows here at my school who seem to aspire to have shoulder widths of four inches across or so. It looks like they intentionally walk with their arms ahead of their torsos. It's all very disturbing.

Secondly, sir, why the attitude? You work in the school cafe. It does not bring you cred, despite your efforts to dress in brown and not comb your hair. This cafe is a place where people who are involved in annoying hip-hoppery walk around and try to talk to you about 'raising your consciousness.' This is why I get my coffee to go.

Actually, I've been thinking lately that some students here need some counsel. I'm considering hanging up signs all over that inform the 18 year old suburban boys that it is time to turn in their baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirts. When they turn those things in, they will recieve Cliche Reassignment Assistance, combs, and vocabularies.

That last one is especially important, as I recently recieved an email from one of my classmates who fits this description. He was announcing his show at the Fireside to the class. He signed the email 'allright, bye.'

Oh, come the fuck on. I don't buy it for a second.

OK, I'm going to go chase some kids off my lawn now.