I've told this story several times in the last few hours: to my friends; my coworkers; apartment manager; and police. It is such a strange tale that I've prefaced it everytime with, I know this sounds weird, but... INo matter how unusual it sounds, it is one hundred percent true.

As I turned the deadbolt and entered the door of my apartment last night, after my regular Monday-through-Friday eight-hour slaving for the man,

As the door swung open and I removed my shoes, nothing seemed amiss. The lights were off and the air conditioner humming. All seemed normal. But then an unusual feeling passed over me, and I felt that something wasn't right. The energy of the room seemed... off. (Ok, I don't believe in energy, but i'm enhancing the drama of the story. Just come along with me.)

Usually, I carry my backpack to my room and set it down beside my desk. Everything in my house has its spot. The shoes in the closet line the wall in a specific order, the left ones with their toes facing the wall, the right with their heels facing in. The books on my shelf are organized by catagory, and then by author: their spines line up evenly with the edge of the shelf. The tumblers in the cupboards stand upside down in neat rows; the mugs all with their handles facing backwards toward the center of the two rows; the socks in my drawer are organized by color, and the underwear by style. The bed is always made, and the seven pilows always placed the say way with the open ends of the pillow cases tucked neatly behind out of sight. Everything has its place.

I turned the corner and stepped into my small kitchen. My attention was immediately frawn to a pot lid on the stove. It was unwashed. I had not used a pot, nor a lid, for cooking breakfast. The lid still had cool moisture on its underside, and dried rice gunk on its edge. Somebody had been in my house and cooked rice. the story of Goldilocks emmediately popped into my mind-- which led me to think that the trespasser may still be hidden somewhere in the apartment. I walked through the rooms, looking under the bed, in the closets, in the shower, but nobody was there.

As I passed through the bedroom, I noticed the orange glow of the power button on my computer. Someone had turned it on. The monitor was not on, probably because they didn't know how to operate the tricky touch panel. When I turned it on, it was at the Windows login password screen. They'd have gotten stuck there anyhow. I was a bit disappointed, actually. It would have been nice to see check the browsing history to see what they'd been up to.

Back in the kitchen, I check out the pantry. All of the rice was gone, and dried up rice grains were littered about the sink. The back burner of the stove had evidence that the pot had boiled over while cooking. The intruder apparently was browsing the apartment's contents while their dinner cooked. In the pantry, I found that all of my rice was missing. The bag I keep it in was full of air. I always press the air out before I seal it up. Finally, I noticed a granola bar-- my last one-- was missing.

I didn't feel violated so much as curious. Nothing, save the granola bar, the rice and the pot in which they cooked it, was missing. How'd they get in? Why did they steal nothing of value? Why did they not notice the already-cooked rice I had in the refrigerator from the night before?

It was all very surreal.

The maintenance people are changing my locks on Saturday and I'm going to start using the alarm system. So, if you're reading this, Mister or Miss Rice Eater, don't come back. Just knock and ask for rice. It's cheap. I'll share.

I will preface what I am about to say by assuring you that I do not dislike my coworkers. As a matter of fact, there are a few of them without whom my days would be suicidally boring. Nevertheless, there is one particular thing that every single one of them does that annoys me; one short phrase that is a near-involuntary reaction. It is an acquired turrets, an automatic response that has been embedded into the deepest part of our minds by social brainwashing. It is uttered without thinking. Like the famous slobbering dog, it is set off by a simple sound: a sneeze.

Without my even revealing to you this pithy prosaic politeness, you know what it is. I shan't type it.

There is no reason for a public acknowledgment of my sneezes. It is neither required nor desired. I am not one to stifle the rights of speech, though. Say whatever you like. I do not appreciate, however, feeling obligated to respond to this inanity in any way. For some reason, it is considered rude of me not to thank the dozen people around me who feel the need to utter this thing-- a completely pointless thing I didn't ask for and don't want.

Many people think I'm being ridiculous for not just going along with the polite way of interacting with those around me after I sneeze. Why is it such a big deal, they ask. Exactly! Why is it such a big deal that I don't respond in the way they think is appropriate-- by thanking them! If you really want to make me feel better, give me $5.00 or a free massage or some other meaningful action or commodity. Then you will deserve my thanks. Otherwise, I see no point in saying something I don't mean. Neither will I react involuntarily to such empty offering of well wishing.

I am no slobbering dog.

A couple of weeks ago I left my roommates behind and moved into my own apartment. There was no hostility between the former house mates and I, I just wanted to be in my own place again. This is the first time since 2005 I've lived alone. Unfortunately, I had very little furniture; my bed, desk and bookshelves filled only my bedroom. With a bit more room to fill, I went furniture shopping this weekend. I managed to find two very good deals! The first was a dining room table and chairs for only $15.00. It is pre-owned (that is the most annoying euphemism for second-hand I have ever come across and I use it here simply to amuse myself), but in good shape. The second is a cream colored leather-ish chair. It had a few black marks and glue residue on it, but lemon juice and baking soda cleaned those off, followed by a leather restorer to make it soft and supple again. Aside from those silver feet, it's not too bad. I still need a sofa, coffee table, and art on the walls. It's coming along nicely.