I wish the Heat Miser would come visit me and melt my apartment. I've always seem to live where there is some sort of heat beef; where the master controls are hidden in the apartment above or below me but never in my house.
The last place I lived my landlord had the thermostat box in his apartment downstairs. And defying the law of physics and heat rising, he would oft complain that it was smoldering downstairs while we'd be calling to complain it was fucking freezing upstairs. We'd bargain with each other. It fucking sucked.
Being cold and being hungry are sort of non-negotiable yet those who are warm and those who are full will still barter with you just because they can and because human beings are lazy and selfish by nature.
I've never called a neighbour or a landlord without winding up having to explain my situation; somehow simply saying "Look, I'm fucking cold down/up here" never seems to suffice for these fucks. I'm always forced to expound upon my temperature dilemma and then there is some sort of mind-bending Gordian dialogue where we compare situations and so on.
At my old flat, there were a few occasions when the heat was out altogether and our landlord would call us and ask "Is there any place you could go stay tonight?". I mean, this is a true story and I'm not living in fucking Section 8 housing or anything! I remember one time we were playing a show in Providence, Rhode Island in like February (Providence in February is like Siberia) and my landlord calls me up and tells me I have no heat to come home to, is there any place I could go. It fucking sucked. Knowing we had this long drive home and then into a house that was ice cold. Good times!
No one who is hot can realistically contemplate the cold. So now I live on the first floor and the motherfuckers upstairs have the controls; they hold the reigns of my winter destiny.
And I call them and say "Yo, Hades, its fucking cold down here can you kick it up a notch" and they hem and haw about how hot it is up there. Yeah, that's real great but um, it's freezing down here, so turn it up, bitch.
It's like, motherfucker, I wouldn't be calling you unless I was freezing my sticky buns off down there so don't talk to me about your utter disbelief because its just so damn hot upstairs. I'm not lying. I'm calling because I'm cold and you hold the key to my density.
I may have to take this up with my 98-year-old landlord but I don't really know what can be done save for getting another boiler and that'll never happen; hell will freeze over before that happens. Hey, wait a minute...