There are two ways to write this post.
There’s the way where I paint myself a victim of circumstance—someone who got totally screwed and didn’t deserve it.
And there’s the honest way.
I am a chronic procrastinator and am grossly irresponsible for a 36-year-old father.
It’s the reason my retirement account isn’t as large as it should be. It’s the reason I don’t have any books published. It’s the reason I don’t have a 28-inch waist. It’s the reason my house isn’t as clean as it should be. It’s the reason my ex-wife gets pissed at me when I overlook or don’t pay attention to some detail related to our son’s school schedule. It’s the reason I let my auto insurance lapse last year.
And it’s the reason I don’t have natural gas service to my house as I sit here typing this.
“What’d you do, Matt? Not pay your bills!?”
I actually have a credit on my account because I pay more every month than I need to, thank you very much.
But what did happen is the gas company kept visiting my house to inspect my gas meter when I wasn’t home. Not the entire company, I don’t think. Probably just one guy. They need to inspect meters (mine’s indoors) to ensure they are gauging gas usage accurately and to regularly check for natural gas leaks.
So, instead of just breaking in or maybe letting my uncle’s ghost show them around, they left a little card on my door knob informing me I needed to schedule an appointment to have my meter inspected.
It seemed important, so I put it in my Jeep to remind me to call on my morning commute instead of calling immediately. I called one time a couple days later, but the offices were closed, and I just sort of never tried again.
I just kept on living because if I just don’t worry about it, it will magically go away!!!
Because I live in Ohio, the temperature can swing 30 degrees in one day. And it did. We had a little cold spell recently, where it was in the 30s and 40s (Fahrenheit) at night, and in the 50s during the day.
Wednesday, I noticed the temperature reading in my house was 59 degrees. Unacceptable. I turned on the furnace and went to bed.
When my alarm clock woke me yesterday, my sinuses were totally clogged and my bedroom was about 55 degrees, as if a little magic ice troll was camped out in my air duct shooting pneumonia sprinkles and fuck-you dust at me all night.
I assumed my furnace was broken since that was the most expensive explanation. Whatever. I’ll fix it later!
I put a space heater in my room last night because I figured possibly setting my house on fire is better than being a tiny bit cold and also because screw that little ice troll.
Everything seemed fine until the part where I got in the shower and screamed obscenities. Because that was hell.
That’s what hell is, folks. An endless cold shower where all the women you find attractive take photos of your shriveled penis and post them to Instagram and Facebook and then tag your grandmother.
“Hahaha! See how funny it looks with the Lo-Fi filter!?”
Like. Like. Share. Like. Share. Like. Like.
No hot water combined with my furnace blowing only cold air told me all I needed to know: Those bastards shut off my gas.
Is that a little harsh? Shutting off gas to a customer who is a couple months AHEAD on his bill paying? Maybe another warning stuck to my door? Might that have been a better way to handle it?
I think so.
If it was winter and they shut off my gas, my reaction would be infinitely less measured. The gas company would have a real problem on their hands. And by that I mean, I would have complained to four or five people who don’t procrastinate all the time, and then do exactly what I’m already doing, which is meeting a gas company person at my house whenever they call me.
(Insert magic time-travel sound effect here)
I have a minor gas leak in my house! Gas company man just left. He was cool.
Now I’m waiting for the plumber to come, install new fittings, then I’ll have to call the gas company back so they can restart service.
I think this is one of those times it’s important to look on the bright side.
Is it fun waiting for a plumbing company to call you back, and then overcharge you for the work they’re going to do?
But is it kind of awesome that I will greatly reduce the risk of dying in a fiery explosion in my own house?
I feel like it probably is.
Maybe you guys would hear about it someday. “News at 11. Procrastinating blogger’s home explodes, killing him, but also saving him from having to power wash his exterior walls and mop the basement floor, so don’t feel too bad.”
Or maybe you wouldn’t hear.
Either way, I’d probably end up in that forever-cold shower, shriveled penis exposed, and going viral on Facebook – Eternal Damnation Edition™.
Like. Like. Share. Like. Share. Like. Like.
But, hell. Since I’m still alive?
I guess I’ve got some things to do.