I was talkin' to Peachy Peach about Kissy Kiss.

I can't keep the secret anymore. I've tried to hide it now for months. I tried to tell, you know, certain people about it, but everytime I never really had the guts to come right out and say it. I don't know if it's really been a secret or not. I guess it has. Or maybe not, I never know what people say. Anyway, here it is.

I think my apartment is a drug addict.

All the signs have been there. All the signals. The hacking cough in the middle of the night. The money lent, never paid back. The strung-out looks. But I put this off to all the rich food and vitamins, until yesterday. I was doing a pretty big birthday-dinner related load of dishes, with the rather large accompanying load of disposal detritus. Now, my garbage disposal has never been the most reliable of things. I always sort of felt like, when that thing was going, it was quite possible that some sharp metal blade was going to fly up and plug itself into my brain. It felt, well, a little unstable. Anyway, I turned on the thing, and it took care of business, for the most part, so I figured, why make waves?

So it comes time to do this particular load when it all of a sudden freezes up. Stops short. Hums.

I try to turn it on. No go. Turn it off, on again. No go. I even bend down on my hands and knees, open the cupboard and push the "reset" button. No go. Finally, I call my landlord, and he sends over the maintenance guy. A couple of hours later, said guy comes over and tries a couple of things. No go. Said guy, who is more intrepid and much braver than I, reaches down into the disposal, and roots around a bit. And what does he pull out?

A spoon.

A slightly bent, metal spoon.

A slightly bent, blackened, metal spoon.

A slightly bent, blackened, metal drug spoon.

Said guy says: "Looks like a drug spoon."

What am I to conclude? Looks like there was a drug spoon shoved into my garbage disposal this whole time. I never noticed. Oh, like I say, I should have known. The signs were there. But the only choice I have is to believe that my apartment is, in fact, a secret heroin addict, stealing my used diabetic syringes and using this hidden spoon as it's burner. Why, apartment, why? Was I a bad tenant? Did you learn it by watching me? (Well, not me per se, but you know, me in the sense of tenants generally?)

In other news, my doctor's appointment went fine. I am, apparently, in tip-top shape for a diabetic. According to my doctor, I look "lean". All is well, except that she discovered a heretofore unknown to me congenital birth defect. More on that never.