Heaven is a place strange of practical jokes

Yesterday, during a nap of the awesomest variety, the sort of nap that can only occur when one has voluntarily committed one's self to sleeping instead of one's afternoon class, i was roused from the sweetest of dreams. A dream about not being in class. It was made even the more sweeter by the fact I new by the very fact that I was dreaming about not being in class that I was, in fact, not in class.

I was roused by the repeated ringing of my buzzer. You see, the doormen in my building are supposed to check your ID every time you walk into the building, and, if you do not have ID, they sign you in. Fine. Let us ignore the fact that I am a fucking adult and I don't need to show my goddamned ID every single time I walk into the building. I've lived in this city for nearly a quarter of a century, and you know what? My doormen at other buildings never asked to see my ID. In fact, they recognize me. So do these guys. They just enjoy the power to fuck with you. They LOVE, and I mean like, deep, abiding, soul felt longing, to card you when you are walking in with arms full of groceries, or, with a cute girl, because, seriously, nothing is better for your game than fumbling around with a wallet to get out your ID at 2 in the morning while the chick you are with gets to see you illuminated under the harsh phosphorescent lights and has just enough time to think... hey... maybe I shouldn't sleep with this guy. Thanks, doormen. Oh did I mention if you yourself are a cute girl, they never ID you? Yeah.

So. The buzzer goes off. After steadfastly ignoring it for a good four, five minutes, I think, jeez, fucking, fine, I'll answer it.

*roll out of bed*
*trundle trundle*
"Mmheello?"
"Yah you gottaauuhh a visitah comin up?"
"K."

I stand, swaying, at the door, for some moments. I hear a knock on my door. I answer it. The hallway is completely, utterly, empty. Oh, except for the billowing cloud of weedsmoke. Clearly, something has gone amiss.

Conclusion one: the doormen are assholes.

Conclusion two: the person who was coming to see me exploded into a cloud of weedsmoke. May he rest in peace.

Ancillary conclusion two: I myself am not high.

Final conclusion: I must be dead, and heaven is the land of strange practical jokes.

This was further driven home by the fact that, despite being dead, I spent the next two hours doing laundry.

Strange days.