I've wanted to write for awhile, but I've been too busy writing complaint letters to rich assholes who drive Porsches. Being pissed off at stupid shit has become incredibly time consuming for me.
I moved into a rental back in April, and my former condo has since been renovated and is now on the market. I looked forward to making the move. Although the move itself was somewhat stressful, I eventually got settled in, and that's when I began abusing Valium.
A Synopsis of the First Three Months in My New Complex
First aggravation: Management fails to install my blinds.
Therefore, I spent the first six weeks in my new condo giving the neighborhood regular titty shows and watching evening television while wearing sunglasses.
Want to know how much I pay in rent? ENOUGH FOR VENETIANS.
Second aggravation: People fucking with my shit.
Regardless of the friendly note I left on the GMC who parks next to me letting her know that I would be occupying the neighboring stall, so, like, please leave enough space for me to safely park my car, she responded with this:
And eventually left my car with this:
But I have no way to prove it was her, so I will be footing the bill. And I will be footing the bill when she does it again.
Despite my friendly note, and despite causing damaging to my car, and despite the fact that I actually pay for my parking stall, she still parks like a drunk asshole.
Outdoor parking? Doesn't exist, except for bumper to bumper parallel parking on the street outside, which is usually full when I get home from work. Did I mention that I pay for my parking stall?
Third aggravation: GMC fucks with my perception of reality.
A few days ago I made the realization that she (GMC) is actually a he when I saw him drive past the front doors of the complex.
Obviously this realization has taken a massive shit on my preconceived gender stereotypes, and I now have to accept the reality that not only have modern men become emasculated in every other arena, but they have also lost their ability to properly maneuver motorized vehicles. At least I can pull some comfort from the fact that GMC was wearing white sunglasses and his hat side ways, a signification that he might have an intellectual disability, and therefore may be deserving of my empathy.
Fourth aggravation: Adult contemporary instrumentals meets the sound of construction.
In late May the Monday to Friday, 7 AM to 6 PM construction began, which wouldn't have been such a low blow if I didn't sleep during the day. First came construction in the courtyard below my window.
Then the city began working on a subdivision on the land on the East side of the complex, which I expect will be in construction mode for the next two to five years.
Add that to the Sirius Radio Water Colors that blares 24/7 on the front steps and in the lobby, and the Michael Buble that pounds throughout the courtyard, and this place has enough noise pollution to inspire the most passionate metal head to put a gun in his mouth.
Although I must say, the sound of a jack hammer is still less aggravating than the power walking, Nazi nurse who temporarily lived above me between 2007 and 2008. May that bitch rot in condo hell.
Fifth aggravation: being lied to about stupid shit.
In June the weather began to warm up. I have a West facing, top floor unit with large windows and I sleep during the day. No biggie, though. One of the reasons I signed the lease was because I was told that all units were equip with air conditioning.
Except a vital piece of information had been withheld from me, which is that the air conditioning system is broken. After doing some schmoozing with some of the long term residents, I discovered that the air conditioning system had been out of commission for over a year and a half.
Every day during the month of June I came home from work to find my condo hovering at 27 degrees Celius, despite leaving my patio doors open all night and risking damage from the elements. It was only June, June in Canada, and the true heat of summer hadn't even hit. I expected that sometime during the months of July or August, the kitties and I would pass away from heat stroke, and my parents would have to bear the financial burden of a triple funeral.
I contemplated the possibility that maybe I was meant to live underground in a zombie proof bunker in the heart of a ghost town in the middle of mother fucking nowhere, where I would live off the protein of mice that were brought to my trap door by feral cats sharing their kill. Or maybe I was meant to have an air conditioned rental unit, like I was promised upon signing my lease, so I didn't have to run a conglomeration of fans with buckets of ice situated in front of them for ten hours a day. So I didn't have to give my Persian cats sponge baths every few hours. So I didn't have to lay in 30 degree filth, in my gotch, moaning while I pondered the various ways in which I wish I would die if only I didn't have two Persian cats who depended on me for love, security, and sponge baths.
Eventually I began calling my mom in three hour intervals, spouting words of the devil while punching the air in a heat induced rage, and causing her to question the decision she made 28 years ago to conceive a second child. So, I began scouring Kijiji for available rentals, and I found a few. But as I did some cost/ benefit analysis in regards to breaking my lease, doing another move, and potentially setting up camp in some other misrepresented, douche-bag-of-a-complex, I back tracked and I gave in.
I bought my own goddamn air conditioner.
And thanks to the superior handiness of my pops, it was quickly installed, and within 24 hours of it being installed, the kitties decided that I was worth keeping around, after all.
That summarizes the major aggravations I've experienced while living in my new condo complex, but there have been a plethora of minor aggravations, as well:
Minor aggravations: More stupid shit.
- Blindly ascending into oncoming traffic while progressing up the ramp of the underground parking lot as to not bottom out my car
- The creeper cams located in the lobby, front entrance, and the gym, which any resident can tune into on their Shaw cable and watch, live. This is for our "safety", and obviously I feel much safer knowing that 20 year old douche bags can sit around in their condo with their friends, cracking beers, and rating my ass on a scale of 1 to 10 while I do squats. I can only guess how people who live in other condo complexes get by without these amazing amenities.
- The random loss of hot water, which has lasted for days
- The elevator smelling like feces. At least shit runs down hill, and my condo is on the top floor.
- Management failing to program me into the front entrance call system that was meant to be connected to my cell phone so that I could let myself in if I forgot my key fob. This lead me to sit out in the rain for half an hour waiting for another resident to show up so I could get back into my condo.
- The bipolar, motion activated lights in the underground parking lot that regularly require me to walk into blackness while jumping up and down, and to put on my high beams so that I don't drive into a concrete pillar, or the back of GMC, like he drove into me.
And . . .
- 20 year old douche bags smashing liquor bottles in common areas
- 20 year old douche bags passed out in common areas
- 20 year old douche bags cutting themselves on broken beer bottles, then passing out in common areas, then bleeding everywhere and requiring a bio hazard crew to clean up the mess
- 20 year old douche bags kicking in the buttons on the elevator
- 20 year old douche bags throwing each other into walls and wrecking decor
- 20 year old douche bags vomiting in common areas on a Friday night, and that vomit festering until the cleaners show up on Monday morning
- 20 year old douche bags being let into the building in the first place
- 20 year old douche bags
Actually, this notice from the condo management team pretty much sums it up:
But for all those posi-trons out there who are reading this and searching for a sparkle among the cess pool, living in my new condo complex isn't all shit and idiots. I do really like my unit, itself, and since I'm on the top floor, I don't have any Neo Nazi nurses working out their ADHD above my head. I regularly have the marijuana smoke of the chronic who lives beneath me waft into my unit and I now use the second hand smoke to bring Snorticus Maximus down when she's experiencing one of her kitty Tourette episodes. I have also formed relationships with a number of good people within like complex, like Joseph, the Nova Scotian across the hall, and the equally as Nova Scotian cleaners. And Doreen, my jaded, 80 year old BFF and her husband, Vern. And the 40 year old professional man who complains to me that "the only thing the little fucks in here do is fight and fuck." And the front desk woman who refers to me as "HEY GIRL!!". And Dylan, the too pretty, 20 year old boy who makes girls everywhere cry, and even though he can't wrap his dimples around "why the hell anyone would voluntarily choose to write, like, anything", always asks me how my writing is going.
So, because I signed a legal contract promising my tenancy for a year, and, more than anything, because I'm too lazy to experience the misery of another move, I'm trying to compartmentalize all the stupid shit, and focus on the good.
It's challenging, but I'm getting there.