Every Sunday night there are showtunes. It's okay, though, because they are good. Last week was Smoky Joe's Cafe (which I adore). This week it's...something I don't recognize, possibly because my hearing sucks so bad. But that's good, because I'm less tempted to sing. I've had to give up singing now that I no longer have a car. I believe it's listed as a crime against humanity for me to sing if I'm not alone in a car with the windows rolled up.
It beats the rat in the wall, I can tell you that much. Oh, did I not mention him? Yeah. "Welcome to New York. Here's a rat to keep you company. He loves you and he's nocturnal. Yes, you might wish he were a man, but he's not. He's a rat. Because if we were giving out men, everyone would move here. Well, everyone but heterosexual men. So, really, it would be just like it is now except you'd have a man instead of a rat. Whoopsie daisy. Enjoy your rat." On the bright side, the rat was in the wall rather than in my apartment. And on the brightest possible side, he escaped somewhere upstairs and was apparently apprehended without incident. Well, without any incident that involved me. I'm thinkin' my super doesn't see it that way, but he still has eight fingers and two thumbs. I didn't want to inquire further than a general tally of digits because I might squeal like a big old fraidy cat, thus risking being laughed out of town for not being able to impersonate a city dweller.
I also didn't ask what happened to the rat. I trust my super, and I prefer not to know. Maybe he went to live on a farm. Or maybe it's a little rat angel I hear singing show tunes on Sundays. RIP, little rat. Oh, and welcome to New York.