So one of my stories I share with new people is that I got painted into my apartment and the fire department had to rescue me. I had stayed home all day and saw that they were painting all the walls and doors inside my building. Hours later, I finally decided to head out for food. I tried opening my door from the inside but it wouldn’t budge no matter what I did.
I called *him* because that’s what I always did when I didn’t know what to do. He said to call 911 but I was worried I’d get in trouble because it’s not really an emergency right? I ended up calling the non-emergency line for my local police precinct. The cop on the phone was confused af but he eventually understood that my apartment door wouldn’t open and transferred me to the emergency line who transferred me to fire rescue.
Three very old school NYC firefighters showed up at my door 7 minutes later. They spoke to me through the door and told me they were gonna pry it open with their tools… They eventually blew the door open. I was kind of embarrassed and I think they also understood the ridiculousness of the situation… The wet paint was carelessly brushed across the wall and outside of my door acting as a glue that sealed my door shut as it dried.
One of the firefighters asked me what my last name was. I told him but I still don’t know why he asked. Half an hour later the cop from the local precinct called me back directly (which I wasn’t expecting given the usual dastardly nature) to check to see if I had been rescued. Nothing about that evening was what I expected it to be.
I left to get my 10pm pancakes.
In a way, it’s a metaphor right? I thought *he* was healing me and saw me for myself. But really, he was just carelessly putting on a fresh coat of paint to brighten me up and the real me got trapped inside. She wasn’t able to open the door from the inside. And in this version, no one came to rescue her.