I have lived in my precious second floor apartment for three years now without much reservation concerning the folks who own the restored historical building that contains my abode. Sure, it took a year to get a doorbell because they didn't want to disturb the original bank of ye olde mailboxes (the door to mine has fallen off making my bills welcome to anyone wants them) but finally relented because I begged and begged, making the case that people have had to resort to shouting at me from the grass below, disturbing the neighbors. Not everyone I know has a cell phone, making it difficult if we are planning to get together and without a doorbell on a locked building, it's quite the conundrum. So still the yelling continued.
One year later, the doorbell appeared.
However, it was wired into what I later figured out was about three other apartments. When one of my friends rang the doorbell, three other apartment doors on the bottom floor whipped open and I had to race them to the door to head them off at the pass, reassuring them it was for me and not some weirdo. Or I got used to just peering down the stairs to see if it was one of my friends. It got to the point where I just told my friends to call me when they arrived. Or if I had a date, I would just do the same or explain that if a bunch of guys tried to answer the door not to be alarmed. It wasn't that kind of date. I was constantly explaining the stupid doorbell.
That, and when it first appeared it was constantly scaring the shit out of me.
I would be fast asleep at 3 a.m. and the doorbell would ring a few times, startling me out of my dreams. I would be disoriented and horrified, thinking there was some sort of emergency. I would run down the stairs only to find no one there. This happened about three times before I figured out that people, in our non-smoking building, would be leaning on the mailboxes, sucking on their cigarettes, and their elbows would lean on my doorbell and then by the time I contemplated what the hell was going on and shoveled myself into some clothing and shuffled down the stairs, they had gone back inside. Another problem is that my neighbors just pile the mail they don't want on top of the mailboxes as opposed to throwing it in the trashcans in their houses, which they return to after checking said mail. Therefore, there is a raging epidemic of their shitty mail getting stuck under my doorbell and setting it off and I come home to incessant ringing. This happened to the person across the hall from me while they were on vacation but it was before I had figure out all the evils of the doorbell I had so coveted when I first moved in, so for one week straight I could hear their doorbell ringing OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER...etc. I pretty much stayed out of my house as much as I could for that week.
So the latest jipfuck I get besides well, the attic not being well insulated and my self-proclaimed conservation loving landlords who dig jetting around in their odd compost powered vehicle and letting their tenants either pay $200 heat bills for itty bitty apartments or get their heat shut off because they would rather eat, is and I quote, "An Exclusive Invitation for YOU to GROW RICH/STAY RICH." All twelve tenants of my building have in their hot little hands, printed with their first names, two VIP tickets, valued at $199, to a Grow Rich, Stay Rich Wealth Conference run by super geniuses (I know this by their super cool hair cuts and high cheekbones that only people who grow rich and stay rich can possibly maintain) Linda Woolf, Trevor Woolf (Oh! Double wealth! DING!), Matt Madsen and Randy Crane (He isn't smiling...maybe he needs a girlfriend or is just so smug because his crotch is covered in ladies and that's why it's a head shot). I apparently have to call now to activate my VIP seat or someone else will get it? Hmm. There is an exclamation point so this must be true. Well...I get to pick what hotel I get to go to and plunk my ass down in an uncomfortably upholstehered chair with metal legs while I drink coffee with a red stirrer straw and eat stale cookies to remind myself how much I want to grow rich and stay rich so I never have to live like this again. The most attractive location, of course, sounds like the HyattRegency Tech Center-Denver because then I will see people with blackberries and PDA's and bluetooths (teeth?) and microwaves on their head and toasting things in their jackets...all sorts of technology that will make me want to...grow rich and stay rich.
The reality is this: my landlords sold their tenants names out. That is a big fuckwad thing to do and I am going to go take a major shit in their little conservation mobile they drive all around town. And then I am going to go put something with radiation on that tire swing I covet that swings from the tree on the front lawn I always trip on and fall on my face when I deliver the rent the insures my privacy and that I will not get bogus tickets to get rich quick schemes. Maybe I will just eat an entire bag of my culinary nemisis, rye bread, and puke into thier mail slot. It would land right in their foyer.
When I get home I will sell their names to several porn sites featuring anal sex. With catalogs.
Moral: Don't fuck with me just because I live under your roof and you gave me a doorbell. I will fuck with you back and still pay the rent with a smile.
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