I have changed most of the clocks, but not all.
My upstairs neighbors are having a jam fest right now. I want to go up there to see if they are as hot as I think all jam musicians are. Bohemian in nature with clothes they found for a buck at the thrift store, unkept hair falling into their faces. They probably wear converse shoes so worn they cease to be of much use except for punk status symbols. Perhaps the drummer has those god awful tight leg jeans that have made a comeback, rendering those who have no muscles in their legs as fashion gods where the rest of us who actually walk places hoard our flares and boot cut jeans before they are completely off the shelves.
I'm tempted to go upstairs and introduce myself but a) I'm dying and I hurt and I need a large Swedish man with magic hands to work on my back and b) I think I like my fantasy better.
Of course, my elevator boyfriend (he's totally my boyfriend. We have had at least four successful elevator dates in which we have discussed more than just the weather in the ten seconds it takes to get down to the lobby) lives on the 7th floor, maybe he's roommates with them, or neighbors. Or maybe this will just add to the fantasy as I sit down here, bundled up in blankets with a cup of theraflu, willing my white blood cells to amp up their armed forces and kill without discretion (well, some discretion is needed, we all remember my platelet issue...).
Enough rambling. I need to venture outside for the first time in order to get some soup from the store. Some horribly over priced soup, but soup none the less.