My neighbor stopped by today to invite me to a party he is throwing tonight for his birthday (a canny way of preventing people from calling the cops when it gets too loud, I suspect). I told him I wasn’t sure if I could come, but that I appreciated the invitation and that he had my full support to rage on until the wee hours. Or something less articulate than that in French. He informed me that this party could also be regarded as a kind of building birthday party, as he recently did some research and discovered that the bones of this building date to 1610, making my apartment 400 years old. I had a brief moment of second language stupidity as I didn’t quite understand “1610” at first (numbers are my nemesis) and then seemed excessively amazed when I finally figured out what he was saying. But we shared a nice laugh about America being a young country.
I guess it’s no wonder, then, that my doorways are a bit crooked, my floors are uneven, and that the wiring seems a bit dicey. We should all be so lucky to look this good at 400 years old.
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Also, my greatest dream came true today when somebody arrived here by Googling “world’s worst cyst.” Welcome, dear reader! You are my kind of gal. Or guy. While I can’t help you with your query, I’d love to know what you find out.