It's 7:15. I've just lost an hour of sleep due to Day Light Savings Time.

I woke five minutes ago and franticlly put on my pants and socks and got ready to run out the door, for fear that I was already an hour late for work. Oh, I've definatly only slept an hour.

It's definatly not night time. The lights are on and its a little dark because its early, not ytt.

I'm going back to sleep.

Making efforts to be dirtier than Anna Nicole at the generous geriatrics nursing home, the Mid City Market directly below me has been indundated by something a little unpleasent. Something a little gross. Hell, lets just come out with it: I've shit on the market. Yes, kiddies, the minute you give me running water again, I go and break the pipes. The kitchen of the fishies store is now filled with floaters of a different kind.

The plumber came on an emergency call at like 5 in the afternoon this past Wednesday and I was just getting ready for my wednesday shift at the 'prov. He comes in, decides there ain't much he can do, and goes along his way. Friday morning, my property manager woke me up by coming into the apartment with three plumbers. My boxer clad ass, sexy at any given minute, was up and moving with out an ounce of frazzle. The good mood and sexy legs, not fear and reprimands, may have been what I remember for that first forty-five seconds, cause I somehow managed to put the bong and weed away the night before. Heck, the property manager even said he like what I'd done with the walls (painting was a bit of a no-no).

And, also luckily, there weren't any strange boys in my bed and there certainly weren't any lesbians on my couch. Pretty much the cleanest and emptiest you'll find my house, all things being even. There wasn't even a straight boy in the bar!