Atypical Misery

Friday night, 11:28 p.m. People are stumbling and screaming outside already, but all I can think about is the regularly scheduled death of my landlord, who is sleeping on a couch about 12 feet away (on the other side of a wall). The doctors told his relatives not to bother feeding him anymore; despite several successful cancer surgeries, he's as good as dead, down to 90 pounds and spouting gibberish. I have no idea what this death means for me, and I don't care. But it is odd, while people are celebrating Pittsburgh's Stanley Cup win and the Mets' disugstingly awful loss to the Yankees, to sit in my apartment by myself and wait for the grim reaper to ring the bell next door. So it goes.