When I unlocked the door, the fumes hit me, and my cat Hambone met me at the door.

I heard the offending burner releasing gas quickly, turned it off, and opened the backdoor to let the gas out and fresh air in. I scooped up Hambone along the way, and we sat outside for a bit to give the gas time to dissipate.

A neighbor called the gas company to investigate a potential leak, so I had a couple strangers in my house that night to help me reach and open some heavy windows and to make sure there wasn�t anything else leaking besides the randomly unlit burner.

It was a chilly night as I slept with the window open and the heat barely on, but we breathed just fine.

Damn cat tried to kill me.

I�ll remember this as he cries for wet food after I pour him a bowl of perfectly good (and expensive) dry food.

Do I also open a can of wet for my kitty-witty? Or do I merely remind him that gas fills a house from the bottom up and that he�s the first to collapse when he pulls another stunt like that?

Besides Hambone seeking revenge for my heinous crimes such as not feeing him the second I come home, leaving him alone for an entire weekend, and not giving him a swatty mouse as soon as he loses his previous one, it was a pretty slow evening.

Last night Benito and I partook in some weeknight drinking, as my last entry told. We somehow ended up in my condo�s computer room, so I thought I�d write something. It wasn�t nearly as funny as I recall, but that was just a little after the first bottle rested in my belly. When Benito woke up at 5:30 this morning to head home (Chicago starts ticketing at 6 a.m.), I was still tipsy. However, I was fine with getting to work a few hours later.

I forgot to mention last night that I got hit by a car.

Now don�t freak out.

I was barely hit, and I caused more damage to her car than her intentional bumping me.

Last night was a theater night near my house, so parking was crap. Benito had already driven around for about 30 minutes when he called and asked me to help find him a spot. I found someone leaving and stood there triumphantly while I dialed his cell to let him know of my primo location.

One guy slowed up like he wanted it, but he waved and took off when I saw I was holding it. That�s proper protocol for this situation. He knew what I was doing, and that was that. I found the spot. It was mine. The end.

However, the 50-year-old cunt bitch fuckhead twat in the gold Volvo apparently has never been to the city to know what was going on.

She pulled up to parallel park it and then was shocked when I didn�t move. She was going slowly, and I was going to win this game of chicken. When her car bumped me, I yelled and punched my fist on her trunk.

She unrolled her window to say that I couldn�t just stand there to hold the spot, and I said that I�d call the cops if she didn�t get her car off of me.

There�s never been another time that I�ve wished I had some keys in my pocket to scratch a message (or at least a few holes) as her bumper pushed against me. It would have been well-deserved. Instead she likely has a nice indentation from where my fist pounded.

Benito was there a moment later to park and check on me. She�s lucky she didn�t drive by when he was around. He�d have pulled her hair so hard that the bitch would need a permanent weave to replace the hair loss.

So, yeah. It�s not that big of a deal, but I was intentionally hit by a car last night.

No wonder I downed two bottles of wine with Benito. We were, um, celebrating life. Ha!

Celebrate your Thursday. G�nite.�