Sweatin' to the Moldies

My apartment is hot. Not in the way that it is great, or hip, or happening. I am talking in a strictly climactic way. I've got the thermostat down as low as it will go. I've got the windows open. The fan is on. And still, it's 90 degrees (32, for those of you who are Centigrade-inclined.) Not a hyperbole. in any way. That's the actual temp. It's like a sauna. Except I have to pay rent. And there's stuff on the floor.

Speaking of disgusting: I found a little present that my roommate left when he moves out a month and a half ago. It was one of the drawers in the refrigerator that I never use. I'm not quite sure what it might have started out as. Cheese perhaps? A kiwi of a smallish size? All I know is that it has recently been classed as a newly discovered ecosystem. Colonization can begin. Thank you, Ryan. Thank you so very much...

And I want this all down on the written record. Just in case I die of heat stroke during the night, or am swallowed whole when the mold-blob beast escapes from the triple-garbage-bag prison I locked it in, I want it to be known how I went out.

Also, I want somemthing witty or, barring that, vulgar placed on my tombstone. It's a dream I've had, ever since I was a kid.

String,

Lilwall