Thursday, September 22, 2005

Life: A comedian

At this point in my young adult life I am not really sure what I believe in, however, I am most definitely sure that whatever it, or who, is hates me right now. The past two days have been, for lack of a better phrase...fucking horrible. Yet still, me being as cynical as I am I find humor in all of my distress and torment. It all started in a cold day, somewhat like this...nevermind, that's another story. Basically yesterday I had to take the reins as an activist again which I am not incredibly happy about as I like to keep a low profile. I found out why my allergies are acting up. It's because there is a seriously dangerous level of dust located conviently in the air conditioning vents. Excuse me, intake valves. This would normally be a very story but for the sake of everyone's sanity, INCLUDING MY OWN, I will downsize it considerably...once upon a time. So I went to the office and told them that I was sick even though I was taking medication perscribed by my physician for my allerigies that has little effect since this is the second time I've been sick in 4 weeks. They, the office knomes, told me that I just wasn't used to the conditions. I was a little angry at this comment, but I calmly asked about the air conditioning units and the possibility that there is build up or mold. The knome that I had been conversing with said that that wasn't possible because the filters in my building are changed once a month. So I waslked away feeling as though I were dumb for asking. When I arrived back at my apartment a thought hit me like a mighty rushing wind, as most things that happpen to me do. I looked at my room and realized that I had been dusting every single day and yet still after dusting there was large amounts of dust. I went to the air intake vent and unscrewed the cover with the dyke survival kit I got for christmas, my tool set, and discovered that there was at least a 1/2 inch of dust on every panel from top to bottom. I cleaned the vent out and saved the dust. I put in a work order to have maintenance clean out the ducts. I wasn't ahppy with that though so then I called the President of the University's office, Judy Genshaft, and got her secretary. I asked to speak to the president directly, but that wasn't possible because here Genshaft is the pope. The secretary directed me to someone who she thought could help. They weren't i nthe office so she said she'd a message. I gave her my 15 spiel about life and dust and how it's all relevant to death. I wasn't happy with that so I wrote an email to the adminstrative assistant to the president again giving the speech. Maintenance showed up an hour later, very disgruntled, as I was, and told me that I was not allowed to open the vents in the first place and that cleaning out the ducts was not the problem because they cange the filters and besides it wasn't in their job discription. I bought a filter for my apartment vent and the men told me that I wasn't allowed to have it because it would mess up the system. The one that couldn't speak English, said something along the lines of the dust that I collected from the vent was the dust that was already inside the apartment and it wasn't coming from the ducts and so it was "filtering." I became even more agitated with this than anything that had previously happened and like a bird I wished I could fluff out my feathers and squak. That I did, The feathers no...I had a nice shirt on. After the men left I went to my Chemistry lab and explained to my professor my dilemma and wondered if he could help in finding out all the components of the dust that I had collected. I used water diffusion and microscopic analysis to discover that the dust contained mold spores .2 x the normal allowance and he usual skin cells, hair cells, dead white cells and so on. I printed a lap copy of this and had my professor sign off saying that all the information was proven true and correct. I went to Dr. Genshaft's office...Evidence clutched in hand. I held my infalable evidence in typed black ink and a single signature.

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