Dear Diary,


There’s a poltergeist in my apartment. I think the doormen feed it Pumpkin Spiced Lattes because it only comes out in the fall. It lives in the pipes and thinks it’s a musician. I think it’s a he, a hip young guy no doubt, maybe with a hint of the hipster about him, who once dreamed of being a drummer before some kind of untimely and traumatic demise lead him to haunt my building and its plumbing. He likes to play me his latest compositions all night and he hasn’t quite got the hang of rhythm. Sometimes he fiddles around in the low, pulsing clang of the musical spectrum, sometimes it’s the tinny high-pitched ding, like the chiming of a broken bell. Sometimes, and I especially love these because they make me feel like someone’s trying to kill me, he throws in an airy rushing sound like gas being pumped through a vent.

At least, that is what I fantasize when the wretched, 200 hundred year old central heating wakes me up at 6 in the morning. I find it’s less sanity-eviscerating to be angry at some kind of sentient entity, rather than a dull and unresponsive victorian-style, wall-mounted, cast-iron radiator that just squats there behind its cover, wildly infuriating and poignantly superior to you in its ability to drive you round the twist without actually being cognizant. How weak and feeble must you be, if an inanimate object can put a kink in your whole day?

Or maybe I’ve just been reading too much Ezra Pound and I’ve taken to making Mount Olympus out of every molehill. (That’s a little literary joke by the way, haw haw, because Ezra’s a big fan of the ol’ Greeks… he essentially thinks he’s Odysseus. If I were him I’d be more concerned with the fact that I was a raging fascist sympathizer and fetid bigot, but hey, who am I to judge… I’m angry at a central heating system.)

Bye for now, got to go mainline a couple of espressos.


2 thoughts on “Dear Diary,

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