8pm: I wake up from an ill-timed nap and prepare myself to go out.
8:30: I notice, from my bed, that my shower is still dripping. The last time it was used was 12 hours ago.
9: The shower is in full on stream mode, despite being off.
9:01: I tweet about this potential disaster.
9:02: I pour a vodka drink and put on Mad About You to pregame to.
9:03: A flood (WATER PUN!) of helpful tweets come in. I follow them.
9:05: I shut off the water. Or so I think. Really, I break my toilet.
9:05:30: I realize the shower is still dripping and the toilet is now broken.
9:06: I pour myself a second large vodka drink.
9:08: I call roommates in a panic, even though they are both out of town and are as useful as me.
9:10: I call my super to find out his number’s been disconnected.
9:12: The cable goes out. I fix it. I kiss Paul Reiser’s face on the LCD screen.
9:18: I tweet that I will bring a man home tonight. Not for love, but to fix my shower. I have hit rock bottom.
9:21: I resign myself to the drip, drip, drip of my sanity slowly dying. I sit down.