uncommoncold

There's something vaguely comforting- and at the same time, disconcerting- about elevators. Travelling up through the belly of a building, all of its innards splayed out a few inches from your body, your feet level on moving ground that appears to stand still. That whir of movement as you pass my romanticized versions of life in an apartment building: the elevator drowns out the loud fucking on floor three, the child crying on four, the frustrated boyfriend trying not to put his fist through the wall on eight.

Our elevator makes funny clicking noises between floors six and seven. Do I need to bring a crowbar along next time to jam open the doors and check for celebrity portholes?

[In case you were wondering, it's not as though I'm not aware that I feel too much and know too little. I've never had any trouble with lucidity.]

I'm starting to give up on Douglas Coupland. I'm sorry, folks. He just doesn't do it for me. Generation X was.. okay, but it was only okay, and nothing more. I'm struggling to maintain interest in Microserfs. (But I'm trying, troglodyte- I really am!)

Tomorrow night, I'm going to see Batman! You've probably already seen it. Was it as amazing as you'd hoped for? Can I get a voice of dissent in the crowd?

I don't want to sleep alone tonight.