"I need to use your bathroom." "No." "What am I supposed to do, shit outside?" "Lincoln did."

The most consistently learned lesson over the past four or five years that the only time you should trust a man named Craig and his list, is when he's a well-known neighborhood maven of sorts who keeps an actual list as a hobby, and because helping people is his purpose in life. If you replace the word "man" with Internet, and conjoin the two key nouns, it's a recipe for disaster and usually the answer given where your exasperated mother asks where you find these people.

I've been in my new dwelling just over a month, and let's take a looksee in how it's going:

*I am convinced that my downstairs neighbors are stealing if not all of my mail, at least my Entertainment Weekly. I believe this because on CNN of all places, there was a story about how Harry Potter graced the cover of the EW Fall Preview, which hit news stands the exact same day it was delayed for another nine months. The reporter than informed me that anyone that has that issue is now has a collectors item. I did not have that issue.

However, one evening, I was getting home from work, and walking to my door. And you know how it, dark outside, lights on in, shades open -- you can't help but look. What if there are people having sex? Always eager to learn something new, I sneaked a peak, and lo and behold, on their floor sat the Harry Potter-tainted Fall Preview of Entertainment Weekly.

Now, take piece of information, combined with the fact that my subscription is no longer arriving at my previous mailing address, the EW website has the correct current mailing address on my account information, and the only time I've received a piece of mail here, it was in THEIR mailbox. I know it's enough for a conviction, but I've put enough Law & Orders to fall asleep to on my television to know that it'd at least get me a warrant.

Direct confrontation seems to be the best course of action, however I thought about my last encounter:

JOSH'S LAST ENCOUNTER WITH DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR

TWENTY-TWO YEAR OLD TATTOOED WOULD-BE HOTTIE IF SHE SHOWERED. Hey, why you all dressed up?
JOSH. I've got an audition for Tony and Tina's Wedding.
TTYOTWBHISS. Weird. Why would your friends make you audition for their wedding?
(Josh stares into vacant eyes, awaiting irony or sarcasm, or anything other than the stone-cold serious that greeted him)
JOSH. Yeah...I don't know.

To solve this dilemma, I've labeled my mailbox with my name, and my apartment number, and I've made all the necessary changes to my contact information.

* Speaking of mail, my landlord, hereafter referred to as 1986 Landlady, wants me to call her, and read her mail to her. She has important mail coming and would like to me to keep her adrift of what mail arrives. I looked into it, and apparently, forwarding your mail to the address you're currently at was invented in 1989, so it makes sense that 1986 Landlady has never heard of it.

Since I've refused to make contact with her via telephone, because any form of talking with her, be it conversational or voicemail, is like reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book and choosing every adventure (Her last voicemail broke the eight minute mark), I politely e-mailed her and said that I barely have time to read my own mail, should I ever receive any. Also, there's the whole illegal thing.

She replied by telling me that she's merely expecting a check, then upon arrival she would like me to take to her bank and deposit into her account. A fool-proof plan that relies solely on the linchpin that "hopefully the one teller that knows me will be working. I forget their name."

* Speaking of accounts, when I moved in, I was given a handful of deposit slips and told to go to Wells Fargo to deposit my rent when the time comes. When I went to deposit the rent, I was informed the account I tried to deposit money into was closed. That very afternoon, the inept teller accidentally informed me before telling me he wasn't supposed to tell me that.

E-mails were sent, and she replied, addressing me as Tim, that should he had to change the account, due to a problem tenant, an ever growing list I hadn't been aware of until after the lease was signed. She gave me the last four numbers of the new account, and said hopefully, I can figure the rest out.

Yup. This all happened.

* One of the main selling points of this apartment was the fact that it was fully furnished, because I have accumulated many things in my life -- debt, regret, a string of increasingly angry ex-girlfriends -- but never furniture. And I thought I could make anything work.

I thought wrong.

The couch was not so much a couch, as it was two randomly stolen pieces from a bigger, uglier, 1986-ier couch. So, to solve that, I purchased an on-sale dorm room couch. And while that solved part of the problem, I still didn't have the comfy, naptime couch and/or barca lounger.

My mom helped me solve that problem. See, every year, at the State Fair, in the grandstand, I visit the hammock outlet. I sit in the hammock, and think to myself how wonderful life would be if I had my own hammock. I always without a hammock though, knowing that 364 days later, I'll sit in a hammock one more time. Not this year. My momma' bought me a hammock, and now, I have a hammock in my living room. And oddly enough, whenever I sit in it, someone gives me a Corona.

However, the one piece of furniture that is the current bane of my existence, is the sofa-bed. 1968 Landlady sleeps on a pullout sofa bed, because she's not, and this is a direct quote "one for comfort or warmth." When asked if I could simply fold-up the sofa bed and use it as a sofa, I was told it was the one piece of furniture that was off-limits in rearranging, because it's so old, presumably at least as old as 1986, that she fears it'll be broken if moved.

In an attempt to honor her wishes, I've tried everything. The egg-carton foam stuff, an air mattress, couch cushions on the floor -- it's the most uncomfortable sleeping arrangements I've ever had. 1986 Landlady fails to realize I've got a good eighty pounds and nearly a foot on her, so the shrunken bed and couch that suit her might be up my alley.

At this point, it's effecting my sleeping patterns, and therefore health, and I'm sure I could find a lawyer that could attribute those very factors to my recent golf-cart collision*. I'm nearly twenty-nine years old -- air mattress' should no longer be a regular part of your life!**

So, somehow, someway, I'm bringing the bed back, and I'm making it work. no matter how much furniture I have to re-arrange.

Speaking of which, any award winning Tetris players out there?

*PS, I crashed at least three golf-carts the other day. Maybe four.
** Hammocks however, completely okay. Oooh, Corona!