Gemotions

The notice taped to the elevator door practically vibrated with bureaucratic doom. "Conversion to Condominium Ownership." Bartholomew squinted at it, his lips curving into a small, mischievous smile. He skipped down the hall, the worn linoleum tiles squeaking beneath his feet. He could practically *feel* the building’s stuffiness, but it just made him want to burst into song.

He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hallway and gave it a playful squeeze, just to see the pressurized hiss. He then did a little jig, humming a made-up tune as he returned the extinguisher to its hook. "Condos," he muttered to the empty hallway, "This calls for a celebration!" He began composing an opera in his head, about a battling tenant and a ruthless real estate baron.

He burst into his apartment, which he thought was drab and ordinary. He grabbed a feather duster and tickled his own nose, letting out a series of giggles. The news had ignited something within him, a giddy energy he hadn't experienced in years. He decided to throw a party, a protest, a celebration, all rolled into one. He'd put up streamers and make the most absurd snacks imaginable.