The Mayor of Creeptown and my Furry Fan

Nothing is going on in my life right now besides school work and term papers. And I refuse to drill holes of boredom in your brains with that nonsense. That's why it has taken a week for me to come up with a new post topic.

But I got one!

My precious little townhouse has had some monumental issues in the last couple of weeks. One is an A/C unit that has a mind of its own or a poltergeist or the Borrowers living in it or something.

It turns on and off at will, the upstairs vents completely shut down on the regular, the thermostat steadily inches its way up to 80 when it's set on 68....precious little things like that.

So, as I write this, I'm sitting here awkwardly at my kitchen table as Sketchy McSketcherson (aka the A/C repairman) toils away on our unit.

This particular repairman's name is John. He shuffled in here wearing plastic booties when I opened the door so as not to soil our carpet, and we proceeded to play 20 questions because John immediately noticed that I happened to be wearing a Texas Rangers shirt.

Where are you from in Texas? What's the weather like there? How are the Rangers doing? Are you a big baseball fan? I'm sure you love the Cowboys right? Did you watch them implode Texas Stadium last week? Have you ever been to Houston?

Holy bombardment of ridiculous questions, John. Just because I am wearing a T-shirt that could have been purchased at any Steve and Barry's or Foot Locker does not make me a walking encyclopedia of the Lone Star state.




Furthermore, you are creeping the hell out of me. I would appreciate it if you would just continue your tinkering. Do not attempt to weasel any more personal information out of me that you can employ at a later date to plan my abduction and subsequent murder, you serial killer.

Is there some unwritten rule that every single repairman that comes to my residence when I'm home alone has to be the mayor of Creepville?


He could wear this hat as he presides over his domain.

The entire time he was here, I unsuccessfully tried to avoid catching McCreeperson's sex offender-esque eye contact, and thought of every possible worst case scenario that could happen.

If he was blocking my route to the front door?

No problem. I would hurl myself through the front windows or flee into the little alley behind our building and take refuge amongst the squirrels and roaches.

If he suddenly came lunging at me with a murderous look in his gaze?

No problem. I have already mapped out the most direct routes to every potential weapon in my kitchen. The knife drawer, empty wine bottles, the pot from the stove, the can of Raid on the counter I would use as makeshift Mace. I have it covered.

And if all else failed, I would have at least written this blog so that you lovely people could give the authorities a real nice place to start their investigation.

Yes, it's morbid and irrational. But one day when this neurotic vein of thought saves my life or at least helps the police find my decomposing remains, I think it will pay off.

In the meantime, my air conditioner is fixed!


And on an unrelated sidenote.....the following pictures should serve as a warning for you to possibly invest in cleaning your fan. I hadn't cleaned mine since July before last night. I know I'm disgusting, but the good news is that it's no longer snowing dust mites in my bedroom.


Meet my furry fan blade.



Look Mom, DUST SNOWFLAKES!



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