So I now have my own apartment, and that is a good thing.

(When I say now, I mean since the evening of the nineteenth of September.)

However I have to set up the apartment and go buy those little luxuries which make life worth living.

Like furniture.

The apartment is currently Spartan. Austere. Barren. Like the surface of the moon; after a particularly boisterous (and apparently directionally challenged) windstorm has scoured all traces of life from it. Heck, the storm has fucking scoured all traces of rock from it.

Well, you get the point. My currently consists of three rolls of toilet paper, a toaster and a vast expanse of carpet. Carpet as far as the eye can bloody well see. Carpet, carpet everywhere and not a drop to drink; except for the orange juice in the fridge.

(That sentence contains the second semicolon that I have used in this post. I really have no clue where a semi colon goes. I used those to stop the ugly green squiggly lines from appearing in Word. My screen informs me that I had counted my punctuation marks before they had hatched. The green line has reappeared. I am currently flipping it the bird. It does not respond. I consider it subdued by my superior intellect. And while I’m at it, I’m changing tense from narrated past to present fucking active something.)

But today the even surface of my carpet was broken, and broken pleasantly I might add, with the appearance of a cable modem, a set-top box (for HBO which I wont ever have time to watch) and a rather wet cable guy. Fucking Comcast was finally here! But again I had counted my punctuation marks before they had hatched. The cable guy proceeded to rip the carpet up from its mooring with distressing alacrity (To run the wires to the cable outlet I had told him I would be using). And once the wires were laid out he re-laid the carpet…by professionally stamping on it firmly and tapping it in.

I looked on bemused silence (Bemused because I was in fact bemused and silence because I’m a strong, silent kind of chap. Much like Bertie Wooster) as the dude went ahead and busily connected wires and disconnected others, and then disconnected ones that were just connected. And then he turned the television on…and there were pictures. Moving ones! And Sounds! It was a miracle. I now had cable. All I needed now was the Internet part of the package and I could head off to work a moderately satisfied person. (And did I mention that I had asked my boss permission to come in late because the Comcast guy was finally installing the shit?).

Cable guy marched over to the wall, and yanked at the outlet. And then he said, and I kid you not, he said, “Oops!”

A chorus of little imps went, “Your FUCKED!” in my head.

“Oops?” I queried.

Well, to cut a long story short, and to stave of the symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome that I feel in my left hand, the cable guy’s supervisor now needs to come in and dismantle part of the outer wall and replace the outlet. I envision this happening sometime in late November. Late November 2525. When Pigs fucking fly and we have Jet cars and all that fancy crap.