1) I was awoken on Tuesday morning by Amanda, my roommate, who was in hysterics because she could not find "Mr. Cat," her sister's cat which she had agreed to cat-sit for ten days while her sister vacations in California. My immediate reaction was one of amusement (something about our disheveled attire, Amanda's tearful cries of "Mr. Caaaaaat," and my having told a slew of bad sitcom-y jokes about hating the cat the previous night). Eventually our superintendent showed up and found the cat hiding behind the washing machine next to a serving of rat poison (!) that had been placed there a number of months ago. (So yes, it is safe to assume the cat was contemplating suicide.) A few hours later, I took a picture of the cat staring at a pineapple (what, you don't all use pineapples as doorstops in your apartments?). I put it on Facebook and it got nine "likes," three of which came from people I haven't seen or heard from in at least five years.
2) I arrived at a party I had been invited to for a new Cosmo iPad app Wednesday night where Pauly D of "Jersey Shore" fame was DJing. After entering the club (with the requisite austere/vague name -- "District 36"), I surveyed the crowded scene. Buff caterers were carrying around trays of mini-cupcakes. Vanna-Whites-in-training, adorned with gobs of makeup, circulated the room showcasing "display iPads." Meanwhile, the crowd of young professionals danced half-heartedly, blithely mouthing the words of Rihanna's "S&M" ("chains and whips excite me") while alternately shouting into the ears of their friends and checking their iPhones. "This is what being an extra in an establishing shot on 'Entourage' must feel like," I thought.
3) I asked Amanda where I should get lunch today, my last day in this apartment before I move out tomorrow. "Um, why don't you just go to the deli downstairs for a sandwich?" Now, in the 22 months I have lived in this apartment, I have probably hit up "the deli downstairs" at least once a week for water, snacks, soda, etc., but, for some reason, not even once did I consider that they probably made sandwiches. I felt totally shellshocked by Amanda's suggestion, like when someone teaches you a new application for a favorite condiment that you had never considered or tells you you've been pronouncing a person's name wrong for three years. "Yeah, go down and get a BLT or something," she said. And so I did. While I was paying for my sandwich, Amanda walked in. "This is my roommate," she said to the woman at the cashier. "Aahhhh," the cashier said, "He just asked me for a bag - he's causing me a lot of problems." Amanda and her laughed at this like old college friends. The cashier handed me my bag and I said "thanks" three times before walking out.