I walked into my apartment the other day and I smelled something: pistachio pudding. The air was reminiscent of that sweet green dessert that combines two of my favorite things: nuts and Cosby. Don't read anything more into that sentence, you perverts.

What's strange is that, of course, I haven't had or made it (or any other type of pudding for that matter) in quite some time. I don't know why my domicile would have borne such a pleasant bouquet, yet it did. The scent faded moments after I had settled in, but the thought still lingered: where did it come from?

Actually, this is not an unusual occurrence. Well, the smell of pudding is, but my apartment taking on various unexpected scents is not. In fact, since moving in several years ago, I have noticed that I come home to a different smell almost every day. In some ways it is kind of exciting: ooh, what will I get to smell today? Freshly baked cookies? Chili? Lavender? Antifreeze? Hamster bedding? A woman's perfume mixed with 40-weight? Happiness?

Seriously, I think I rented a Scratch-N-Sniff apartment.

For awhile it was easy to explain away--my downstairs neighbors were an Asian couple and so for the most part I'd come home to the smell of them cooking below me. It was kinda nice; several times I thought about stopping down to see what was cooking and invite myself to dinner (I figured invading my home with their smells was invitation enough). But they moved out/were deported ages ago and with them the smell of rice and cooked vegetables, only to be replaced by the Odor of the Day.

Is it possible that someone else is living in my apartment without me knowing it--someone who can actually cook? It would explain why my toilet paper runs out so quickly and why I always seem to have cash missing from my wallet. But if someone else is living with me without my knowledge, they seriously need to put in on some rent. Your ass owes me, Mr. or Ms. Phantom Roommate. Still, I never see them so the explanation would either have to be that they are on a completely different schedule than I am or, like in many a science fiction story, exist on some other plane that I can't see but from which they can apparently interact with my kitchen. I wonder if they can see me? Oh crap! I should put on some pants!

Or perhaps it's more sinister than that. I could be living with Tyler Durden. No, that seems unlikely, I haven't caught anyone having angry sex with Helena Bonham Carter. Plus, if anyone has "bitch tits", it's me.

Maybe I have brownies. Not the edible kind, mind you, but the helpful house spirits of Celtic folklore. Although I suppose they'd be edible, too, but probably wouldn't provide a very satisfying meal. Plus I think you're supposed to serve them with unicorn wine and it's not available this time of year. It is possible that while I work they spend their days whipping up meals and treats for me for when I get home. But, since I only smell these treats and never see them, I can only assume that I've got some kind of half-assed, teamster brownies that eat it all before I arrive. It would figure. I wonder if I could trade them in for a set of tomtens?

I should consider asking my friends the next time they come over if they think my place has a particular smell. Everyone's home has a scent unique to them, but I never thought mine would be random. I mean, sure it has its advantages: coming home to the smell of barbeque'd ribs would be sweet, but I know it's going to backfire on me. Some night I'm going to bring home a lady friend and she's going to walk in the door and that will be the moment when fate says, "Ha! Got you now, Kato, you fucker!" and, without a doubt, the whole place will suddenly smell like ass. Moldy ass.

Hey Tyler, can I stay at your place?

Tags: Humor, Life, Ramblings