Most of the fleas I’ve been battling, however, are. Huzzah! I hit a bunch of the rest with a big-ass can of Raid this evening, and they do not seem to have recovered…yet.

Unfortunately, because of my high sensitivity to the bites, I’m still absolutely covered in them. Even the smallest ones take well over a week to go away, and the bigger ones will probably last much longer.

The intense itching is driving me completely insane (even taking a crapload of antihistamines), and I’ve been downgraded to Flamingo from Gay Leopard - It’s not just pink spots anymore, I’m totally covered in calamine lotion.

Anyway, hopefully this will prove itself resolved in the next week or so, and y’all will never have to hear about this nastiness again.

…at 5:30 this morning as I dragged my sorry ass to the gym: A freakishly gigantic spider dangling from my porch light RIGHT AT EYE LEVEL.

I considered stomping on it when it rapidly descended to the ground, but the damn thing was so big, I feared I would only make it angry.

I’m just praying that leaving it alone will cause it to never actually try to get in my house. I was too tired to scream externally, just to give a brief “Euugh!”, but in my head, and if I ever see that in my house, I was giving a full-throated horror movie scream.

Two things causing concern.

First, I got on the scale, and was happy to see I’d lost another pound. The bad news was, I realized I hadn’t weighed Chaplin in a while, so I picked him up to do the whole “weigh self holding cat, weigh self, subtract” method to see how much he weighed.

The big fucker weighs 18 pounds! Somehow, he’s put on two pounds in the last few months. I’ve been feeding him roughly the same amount, so I’m a little mystified as to how he’s porked up so much.

Second, I’m trapped in my apartment. After months of fighting with my landlord, they finally replaced part of my rotting doorframe. However, when they re-hung the door, they did a piss-poor job of it.

At first, the door was just sticking, which I could live with, but it’s deteriorated badly. Now it takes a ridiculous amount of effort just to enter and leave the damn apartment. It’s worse than it was before, which I didn’t think was possible.

What’s sad about this is that it really doesn’t affect me too much at all, since I’ve barely been leaving the house anyway. Hopefully they’ll get this fixed by a reasonable hour tomorrow, and I’ll be able to at least take the trash out and go to the gym.

Just not doing anything terribly interesting, and have had a serious drop in motivation this week. After working for a couple weeks, to go back to doing nothing is awfully frustrating.

I will note a few random things I’ve noticed in the last few days:

- Chaplin falling asleep on my chest means I will, without fail, be asleep within 15 minutes as well.

- If ever you’re cleaning out your apartment and you find old letters or printed-out emails from your ex, for the love of god, do not start to read them. Save them if you must, but shove them in the drawer before you start reading them. Do not do that to yourself.

- I have to vacuum up dirt and cat hair substantially more often now that I have hardwood floors, but I doubt there was actually any less dirt or cat hair when I had carpet. I’m not grossed out by much, but that thought grosses me out just a bit.

- Apparently the new guy next door to me is some sort of classical pianist. It’s kind of interesting when the music bleeding in matches up with whatever movie or TV show I’m watching. And sometimes its hilarious when he’s playing some delicate thing while I’m watching an action movie.

- No matter how much food I buy for a party, it’s inevitably way, way too much, and I wind up freezing a bunch of meat and throwing out a bunch of buns. I just cannot get the calculus right.

- I have several hundred DVDs, most of which I never watch, so I thought I could sell some to bring in some extra money. But combing through them, I can only find about a dozen that I’m actually willing to part with, most of which will not bring me a damn dime because nobody else wants to watch them either.

The company I used to work for (not the show itself, but the much smaller company that technically employed me) has hired me for the week to clean out their old offices, which were basically unused by more than one person for over two years.

They’re selling much of the old furniture to the incoming tenants, but they’ve decided not to store any of the remnants, so they’re giving away what they couldn’t convince the new kids to take.

I scored a very nice lamp, which will now bring light to my attempts to read on the couch, and a great overstuffed chair that conveniently matches the color of the couch.

There’s only one minor issue: The chair has been sat upon by two dogs in the fairly recent past, a pug belonging to my former employers and a husky/Aussie shephard mix belonging to another employee.

This was slightly concerning, since I know Chaplin doesn’t get along very well with other animals (this is a large part of why I have him in the first place: while he’s a sweet kitty on his own, he didn’t get along with his previous owner’s other pets).

After I dragged the chair into my apartment this evening, Chaplin flipped a bit, sniffing and scratching and scratching and sniffing at it, and seemingly generally concerned.

At least he was until he decided to bury himself in the chair, working his own little groove into the seat. It’ll be covered in cat hair in no time.

And that’s when I’ll know that the chair is definitely mine, since the defining characteristic of about 90% of what I own is that it’s covered in cat hair.

Here’s how bored I am right now: I cleaned. And not just “sprayed some Lysol over the bathroom” cleaned. Like, threw out tons of shit I don’t need anymore.

You know how, when you move, there’s always a few boxes that never actually get unpacked until you move again, and you wonder, what’s in here that is actually worth moving?

I unpacked those two boxes today. Turns out the answer was: not much.

I also went through my magazine and newspaper collection and threw out anything that wasn’t of legitimate historical value, meaning about 95% of the batch is now in the dumpster.

Let me back up for a second: I’ve had several boxes of old magazines that I kept around for years (as in, the oldest one I found was the issue of Newsweek right after the ‘95 Oklahoma City bombing).

I’ve dragged these boxes all over the country, since my mother moved out of the house I grew up in and into a much smaller condo, depriving me of much-needed storage space.

I started hanging onto this stuff after my dad showed me a newspaper he’d kept from the day Kennedy was shot, something I found really fascinating. I wanted to save similar stuff for the future.

But I went a little overboard: I saved dozens of issues of Guitar World, Rolling Stone, and other magazines that really are of no use to anyone. I saved every Oscar issue of Entertainment Weekly. I saved everything even moderately historic from Newsweek.

I’d long considered selling the collection on eBay, but when I went to look online today at what I might actually get for some of these magazines (answer: very little to nothing), I decided to just pitch them.

So I went through, saving a very few truly historical items, but otherwise pitching everything. I threw out four bankers’ boxes worth of crap.

What’s funny is that when I checked my email after doing that, there was email from my dad, who’d been looking for my Social Security card. He didn’t find it, but he did find a massive pile of other stuff, including correspondence from summer camp, report cards from elementary school, and various other pack-rat items.

At least I know where the hoarding instinct comes from.

After that, I went through the aforementioned drag-around boxes, digging up dozens of documents that needed to be shredded, and a whole lot of trash.

I wound up with so much stuff to shred that two things happened: First, my shredder overheated badly enough to be unusable for about an hour. Second, I filled a medium-sized moving box completely with the shredded remains of all that paper.

My bedroom is now almost disturbingly clean, and my cat is really, really confused, since all his hiding places are gone. I’ve kicked up enough dust to be sneezing like a madwoman, but it’s nice to feel like I’ve actually made progress on something.

Tomorrow, I’m attacking the living room. I expect to finish filling the dumpster sometime in the next couple of weeks.

Two things I realize now, after going through my budget with a fine tooth comb to try and kick out a few extra pennies, that I probably should not have done:

1. Moved out of my old Russian-Mob-Owned shithole apartment in Venice. I might have wanted to strangle my neighbors on an hourly basis, but I’m paying almost half again more rent than I was, which is definitely in the category of Not Helpful when unemployed.

Also, the dipshit management company here is just as unresponsive to maintenance issues as the mobsters were, so why the fuck am I paying them all this money? I mean, other than to live in a neighborhood with fewer drive-bys.

2. Fucked up my ankle, requiring me to pay exorbitant COBRA rates instead of finding cheapo individual insurance because my ankle turns into a monstrously expensive preexisting condition if I get the individual coverage.

These two things alone are absolutely killing my unemployment budget. I’ve just looked at how much I’ve spent so far this month, and realized I can’t leave the house again until approximately February.

You’re all now officially On Notice.

…that going to Best Buy at 3pm on a Tuesday, it would be at least a little calmer than it generally is around the holidays.

You would apparently be wrong, as evidenced by the HUGE line there when I stopped by to pick up gifts for my cousins this afternoon.

You would also think that since I only moved downstairs in September, a thorough cleaning of my apartment wouldn’t take me two days.

You’d be right in one sense: It’s going to take a third day. Seriously, where the fuck did all this damn dirt and cat hair come from? Chaplin sheds like I live in the jungles of Belize with no air conditioning.

You’d finally think that it would at least be nice to relax a bit when you’re unemployed.

I think you’d be right about that, but between the cleaning and the errands and meeting people for lunch and the other nonsense I have to take care of, I really couldn’t tell you for sure.

When chasing down tumbleweeds of cat hair with a dustbuster, you vacuum up enough of it to create an entirely new cat.