xraytheenforcer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
xraytheenforcer) wrote2006-07-27 11:48 am
xraytheenforcer) wrote2006-07-27 11:48 am
Entry tags:
My Apartment Is Killing Me + The Scofflaw
My apartment may be killing me.
A Drink, because we need it:
The Scofflaw
1 oz rye whiskey
1 oz dry vermouth
1/4 oz lemon juice
dash grenadine (use the real stuff, made from pomegranate. the fake makes a bad cocktail)
dash orange bitters
Stir over ice. Strain into a cocktail glass, garnish with a twist. Quaff, and reflect on the frailties of the human body. Have a sympathy asthma attack, then burn some money.
We moved on July 2nd, and since that day I have been asthmatically wheezing and coughing and not sleeping (onaccounta the wheezing and coughing), and it's severely impacted
1) my job performance. I am so tired I can barely function, and I cough incessantly and ugh.
2) my self-esteem. I look horrible. I feel terrible. I can't exercise because I can barely breathe. I can't even really talk about it because it talking brings on coughing jags.
3) my outlook. I'm distraught at 2am every morning because I'm stuck in an apartment that's killing me, and there's no chance for us to really move until September because of work, school and upcoming vacations, and I have freelance articles due and I'm too sick to actually do the work necessary to complete it. My first feature for another mag, and it's square in the crosshairs.
4) my faith in my body. I hate being reminded of my mortality. Not because I'm afraid of death, but because dying is such an awful process. And now I have an immune system that won't chill the fuck out. I never had allergies until I was 27, and even then, only to one species of tree. Now I'm reacting to something totally different, I don't know what it is, and it's worse than it's ever been.
On the bright side: the last two days have been much better, because I'm sleeping in the living room on the futon.
The shit sandwich: I'm sleeping on the fucking couch in my own goddamned apartment.
Whence the poison? We think it's coming in through the bedroom window from an airshaft between our building and the building next door. Only the bedroom and bathroom have windows onto this airshaft, and it's pretty grody down there. Perfect breeding ground for mold, roaches, rodents, etc. We have since closed those windows and installed in HEPA air filter in the bedroom. I'm still sleeping on the couch because I want to heal as much as possible before I brave whatever is in that bedroom. Maybe, in a week or two, I'll have healed enough that whatever is in there won't bother me as much (I'm thinking my immune system is reacting to everything now, and it needs time to calm down.)
Plans: Visit an allergist, find out what's going on with my IgEs and MHCs and whatnot. Document the problem, maybe identify the culprit. Start sending letters to the landlord explaining the problem. The landlord can either fix them, or we break the lease and move out. We may have to move out anyway.
The Middle Finga: We wasted $3500 on broker's fees and movers, for nothing. And we'll have to pay out again to get to the new place. Which may or may not have some crypto-poison lurking in the walls, invisible until I sleep there for a night and wake up heaving and choking like some Dickensian tubercular wretch.
1) my job performance. I am so tired I can barely function, and I cough incessantly and ugh.
2) my self-esteem. I look horrible. I feel terrible. I can't exercise because I can barely breathe. I can't even really talk about it because it talking brings on coughing jags.
3) my outlook. I'm distraught at 2am every morning because I'm stuck in an apartment that's killing me, and there's no chance for us to really move until September because of work, school and upcoming vacations, and I have freelance articles due and I'm too sick to actually do the work necessary to complete it. My first feature for another mag, and it's square in the crosshairs.
4) my faith in my body. I hate being reminded of my mortality. Not because I'm afraid of death, but because dying is such an awful process. And now I have an immune system that won't chill the fuck out. I never had allergies until I was 27, and even then, only to one species of tree. Now I'm reacting to something totally different, I don't know what it is, and it's worse than it's ever been.
On the bright side: the last two days have been much better, because I'm sleeping in the living room on the futon.
The shit sandwich: I'm sleeping on the fucking couch in my own goddamned apartment.
Whence the poison? We think it's coming in through the bedroom window from an airshaft between our building and the building next door. Only the bedroom and bathroom have windows onto this airshaft, and it's pretty grody down there. Perfect breeding ground for mold, roaches, rodents, etc. We have since closed those windows and installed in HEPA air filter in the bedroom. I'm still sleeping on the couch because I want to heal as much as possible before I brave whatever is in that bedroom. Maybe, in a week or two, I'll have healed enough that whatever is in there won't bother me as much (I'm thinking my immune system is reacting to everything now, and it needs time to calm down.)
Plans: Visit an allergist, find out what's going on with my IgEs and MHCs and whatnot. Document the problem, maybe identify the culprit. Start sending letters to the landlord explaining the problem. The landlord can either fix them, or we break the lease and move out. We may have to move out anyway.
The Middle Finga: We wasted $3500 on broker's fees and movers, for nothing. And we'll have to pay out again to get to the new place. Which may or may not have some crypto-poison lurking in the walls, invisible until I sleep there for a night and wake up heaving and choking like some Dickensian tubercular wretch.
A Drink, because we need it:
The Scofflaw
1 oz rye whiskey
1 oz dry vermouth
1/4 oz lemon juice
dash grenadine (use the real stuff, made from pomegranate. the fake makes a bad cocktail)
dash orange bitters
Stir over ice. Strain into a cocktail glass, garnish with a twist. Quaff, and reflect on the frailties of the human body. Have a sympathy asthma attack, then burn some money.