I hate my landlady

I say “I hate” all the time, but I don’t really mean it, because no one does, but it’s easier to say than “I really dislike” and much, much funner too.

But.

I mean, really, lady, the apartment? It’s over a decade old. It’s possible that maybe NOT EVERYTHING WRONG WITH IT IS MY FAULT.

And you do, of course, realise, that every other apartment here has a grille between the main walkways and their balconies? And that the balcony doors are unbarred and made of glass? You know, the stuff that breaks?

Right now I wish someone would break in and vandalise everything, but leave my stuff alone.

All I want are lights that work, unbroken blinds, and some small sense of security.

*kicks wall over and over again*

*nurses injured foot*

I _really_ “dislike” her. To itty-bitty bits.



[45 minutes of Scrubs later and I’m convinced that all the world (dum) needs now (dadum) is Zach, (dum), Zach Braff.]