I really, really wanted to blog about some things over the past few days. Some current events, I've been wanting to do a 6 month review of what's happened since one of my friends died, but all of that gets shuffled to the back when I'm trying to figure out how acetyl CoA synthase works. But this issue, this can't wait.
I'm renting from a certain realty group here in Chicago. I won't give my address, because I know that some of you are crazed lunatics that would seek the opportunity to find where I live so that you could sneak in late at night, cut a lock of my hair, and scamper out to add it to your impressive and growing shrine, including the faux-baseball cards of me that were taken when I played Little League (both the Tigers AND the Mets). I'm hesitant to mention the realty group, but let's say it's a term for the apparent intersection of the earth and sky and rhymes with "Borizon". I'd be tempted to link you to their homepage, but it doesn't actually exist anymore.
But, anyway, I'm doing that whole sleep thing I love so much. I wake up (a bit later than I intended) to the sound of dripping coming from my kitchen. Lots of it. Drip drip drip. Rapid succession. Then pouring. I'm confused. I get up and go to the kitchen to find that everything's now flooded. Sadness.
As a bit of background, I should note that this has happened before. Some water bubbles up through the sink, and I call Borizon to see if they can do anything. Like make it so I'm not living in a potential swamp. They've never actually called me back, nor has their maintenance man (who, in full disclosure, was somewhat helpful when my apartment was burglarized) ever taken the time out of his schedule to help me move toward my goal of a swamp-free apartment. That didn't change today. Despite repeated calls to the "emergency" maintenance line (I use quotes because it only counts as an emergency line if it does something in an emergency) and an assurance by the maintenance guy that he'd "be there later" (which, I suppose, I can't rule out yet, as time hasn't stopped), nothing. I've left several angry messages on the answering machines of the staff of Borizon, trying to figure out what kind of Mickey Mouse operation they're running where no one's calls are ever returned, neither email nor voicemail seems to have an effect, the homepage has ceased to exist and the maintenance personnel are more theory than anything. I'm going to try to go down there tomorrow morning, but I can't promise too much, as I've got a class and (ye gods!) actually have somewhat of a job to do without spending every waking moment trying to get these schmucks to answer a call.
I'm off to study some chemistry and fume some more.