A House Is Not Home

The living situation has reached a fever pitch. Like a fever pitch that is purely low and outside and just walked in the game winning run of the opposing team, ruining your career and sending you to the minors to rot pitch.

Over the recent holiday my breaker flipped, knocking out everything in my apartment. It wasn't the local breaker. It was the main breaker and my apartment was the only one in the complex that got knocked out. The next day they sent someone out around 5:00 PM to fix it. The dude was a little sketch. I opened the door when he got there and had two thoughts 1) I'm about to get home invaded and 2) Where the fuck did I leave my nunchucks?

So that incident wasn't that bad, however some ice cream was lost as collateral damage.

The next incident was two weeks ago. This one was similar, but it only knocked out the oven and the fridge. It knocked out the oven while baking (half-baking, technically) tiny pizzas from Trader Joe's. I had to push them across the finish line using the microwave and that resulted in ruining them. If you'd like the recipe for making disappointment, however, I've got it.

I called the property managers the next morning and asked them if they could send someone out to fix it and they said they would send someone out to fix it that day. This was after they asked me if I flipped the breaker. Yes, I fuckin' flipped the breaker. You can't just CTRL+ALT+DEL everything as a solution, asstard.

After I hung up the phone I peeked into the freezer at three kinds of ice cream and told them that they were going to be okay, but you could see that they were sweating. God knows what they would say if they could talk back.

Day goes by and no one shows up. Fantastic. Next day at around 6:00 PM the smell let me know it was time to let everything in the fridge go. I pulled the plug on the ice cream and tossed it away as if we had not grown closer than a man and his dog...that he eats over a 2 week period.

Three days and 5 phone calls later, they sent a dude out. It was a real electrician this time. He had tools. He checked out the wiring and did some test scenarios. Diagnosis? The wiring is fucked. The whole thing has to be redone. Headstones and bodies, man. When will people understand that you've got to do things full assed and not half?

So, anyway, I call the property managers about three times a day now trying to get out of my lease and no one answers. This whole electrical issue is just in addition to waking up to "Good Morning" on a Saturday as the neighbor wakes up her kid. There is also a Turkish debate that goes on every night at 11:30 that is followed by a Turkish marathon at about 2:00 AM. I'm sleeping with ear plugs now and feel like a fucking prisoner of my neighbors. I ordered a pizza from Dante's pizza the other night and instead of asking me which floor I lived on, he said "Apartment 20? Which ring is that on?" I know. Really forced and obscure reference. The walls of my apartment are so thin...How thin are they?...they are so thin that if I wiped a piece of fried chicken on them, I 'd be able to see through them.

Anyway, if I can't get out of the lease, I think I'll start growing weed in my apartment until they kick me out. If that doesn't work, I plan on training an illegal pet monkey to do my laundry and taking in a pet raccoon and naming him Gary Bandit. I'll have Gary Bandit drive a tiny Trans-Am up and down the hallway until all the neighbors demand that I be removed. Oh, shit. I think the work ecstasy is kicking in.