So I went home yesterday for lunch, nothing special, picked up my new Bowie CD from the apartment manager, ripped the whole thing and went back to work to listen to it. And work, heh.

Come home last night, my doormat is gone. Huh. It wasn't the apartment cleaning lady, the big hairball is still sitting in the middle of the hallway. Maybe my neighbor didn't like the fact that my mat didn't match the current color scheme? All the other doormats on my floor are untouched. Just mine. Perhaps this is some sort of Seattleite version of a dead-horse-head-in-the-bed? Which wouldn't explain why, since I haven't betrayed any mob bosses lately. Seems like a really wierd thing for someone to steal. Annoying on a subliminal level. It's not like my life doesn't suck enough already. I was coming home to spend another night waiting for someone I love's call, you know, the call that never comes. Maybe the Griswolds stole it, and took it back to boston?

The Griswolds, from Boston, called me up last week. They'd found my resume on the web, cause they were looking at an apartment in my building, on my floor, and wanted my opinion on the building. Kinda freaky stuff. How come freaks like that can find me and call, but the people who love me can't stand to talk to me?