Having lost the battle with my apartment company, I have resigned myself to the reality that I will remain in this poor-couples-with-toy-dog hell hole for another month and will then be paying double rent for longer than I should have to, which is not at all. The only redeeming quality of my current residence is that it drives me to drink, and I love me a good drink.
Once a true animal lover, I now look for every opportunity to leave the front and back gates open in hopes that the piece of shit toy dogs that tinker around the common areas and leave not-so-toy shit and piss all over the place will find their way out into the street and disappear. Forever. I know that sounds insensitive and mean—it’s supposed to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m wishing these animals would get hit by a car and suffer a lonely death on the side of the road … I just want their owners to assume this is the case. Trust me, if leaving the gates open would prompt my neighbors to walk out and disappear forever that would be the preferred approach. But, despite their many, many, shortcomings—which include a variety of apparent glandular disorders—falling prey to this sort of scheme wouldn’t seem to be one of them.
I initially had hoped to spend my last month just flying under the radar and getting ready for the big move in August. I find packing to be therapeutic when I’m stressed and drunk (I’m drunk because I’m stressed) which is generally a plus except I have packed up almost my entire apartment already—wishful thinking that I didn’t live here anymore. So now what?
Here’s what, bitches:
- My neighbors have to know by now that all their smiley face notes and reminders posted on the washer and dryer do nothing but end up in the washer and dryer—you’re welcome. It’s time I step up my game and start throwing those notes in the trash, along with the contents of the washer and dryer. Last time I checked, I did not give birth to a horde of fat bitches incapable of attending to their laundry, but I am the proud mother of a new shove-it-up-your-ass attitude that I’m planning on spreading around the laundry room with my neighbors’ clothes.
- I may not be dumb and irresponsible enough to let my animal run around, unwelcome, in the complex, but I am rude and inconsiderate enough to let my cat’s shit join their dog’s on the stairway. It’s going to be a shit storm around here if I have anything to do with it, and there is nothing figurative about that.
- The complex puts itself out as a more upper-class, well-to-do place to live, thanks in part to the fact that the property management company makes a living slapping lipstick on a pig and marketing it as a prized horse. Well, no amount of lipstick can cover the pathetic post-college pigs that live in my complex and share tiny studios with their two dogs, rotating one-night stands, and low self-esteem. Well, it’s time someone brought around a little perspective, so I am going to hold a Homefurnishings for Hobo Sale instead of the perfunctory garage sale. The front gate will be propped open and all bums close enough to hear me yelling from my deck will have premium access to my leftover belongings—and anything else not bolted to the ground, like whiney little dogs that they can eat for dinner.
- My last random act of kindness will be to not punch 102, 103, 106, 202, 302, and 303 in the face next time I run into them. No promises the time after that.
The countdown begins: 33 days and, oh so much to do.