Imagine sleeping for only five hours the night before because the heat from the radiators is so intense and the snoring from the neighbor above is so intrusive that you nightmare about pitbulls sitting on your feet and making you immobile. And that the pitbull-induced immobility is so horrific it startles you from your slumber and sends you to your living room, red-eyed and hungry for grapes.

Imagine the following night, after a phonecall with your dad about his maternal ancestor hailing from Cameroon, and a brief synop of the State of the Black Union featuring Tavis Smiley on C-Span, you finally fall asleep. But after two hours of pillow bliss, you're awakened by loud knocking from the bedroom heat pipe, and then almost as if swimming in unison, loud knocking from the livingroom heat pipe. Imagine that happening every ten minutes for three hours straight. And when you can't bear one knock more, a chronic snorer from above lets out a growl as if he's in competition with the heat pipes for which sound can aggravate Keith the most and send him screaming from his bed, "I HATE THIS APARTMENT!" The winner? All three!

Imagine the following morning, throwing on some maybe-clean thermals, brushing your teeth and treking it up Dekalb, to have it out with the apartment manager [who never returns your phonecalls. even when you leave a message two months ago begging him to return your phone call]. Imagine as you cross Dekalb and Adelphi, with apartment manager's office in full view, you see a sexy fellow plawright leaving her apartment, and who you speak to, but she ignores you because some people are so self-involved or scared that they don't even recognize you when you've met them twice, been to their apartment, share common friends and told them how much you really enjoyed a production of their play. Imagine having to explain how she would know you, but thinking to yourself "pretty face, ugly soul", and then simply walking away in mid-sentence, because your eye is really on the prize called THESE SUCKERS ARE GOING TO DEAL WITH ME AND MY APARTMENT.

Imagine walking in to the office, explaining to the apartment manager that if the heat pipe knocking doesn't cease; if the boiler below the living room doesn't stop sounding like furniture moving every two minutes; if the front door to the building doesn't stop slamming and disturbing my peace; if they don't get rubber flooring to absorb the clink-clonk of the Nine to Fivers as they gallop from the third floor, hoping to catch the C-Train and get to work time enough to buy a muffin... well. Imagine the building manager telling me there wasn't much he could do about the boiler or the stairs, [or the fumes. i didn't mention a strange fume has invaded my workspace]. Imagine the building manager saying he'll give me a call, and me saying IF THESE MATTERS ARE NOT FIXED SOON, I'M MOVING OUT! Imagine the look of shock on his face that I was actually making demands about my living space and how I expect to live.

Imagine knowing that this apartment is a reflection of how uncertain and outside of myself I was nine months ago. And how I no longer will tolerate mediocrity of any kind [especially for or from myself].

And then imagine how great that feels!

Until next time,

Keith