I know we aren’t supposed to keep grudges or wish ill will upon our fellow humans, but let’s make a pact to start working on ourselves later. For now, I’d like to continue bathing in the blood* of my enemies.**
*whatever annoyance I can extract from them
**those who have slighted me to varying but mostly inconsequential degrees
As you know, I live in Denver— which means I pay $1600+ a month for a two bedroom apartment. That might seem reasonable to some of you fancy people, but where I come from you can buy your very own McMansion with a $1600/month mortgage. Yes, your neighbors will be burning trash in the backyard because global warming is a myth, and yes they will also be a pair of 16-year-olds who are about to celebrate their 2nd wedding anniversary, but STILL.
It just feels very expensive here.
But I’m cool with it. Because mountains and beer and chipmunks are totally worth $1600 a month. That even covers the cost of two parking spaces in our garage.
And here we circle back to my grudge.
About a year and a half ago, Alex and I woke up, got ready for work, and tromped downstairs to discover both of our cars were missing. To be honest, I was pretty excited because this meant I didn’t have to go to work and see the Grand Wizard of Assholes. But it was also a bit concerning because I knew we’d eventually run out of food (in like six hours) and really need a car.
Turns out our apartment complex towed our cars– from the spots we pay for– because we didn’t have the latest version of their parking pass. To be fair, they’d sent an email about this a week before, telling us to come by the office to get our new passes.
So I went by on Monday: “Sorry, we ran out. Come back Wednesday.”
And I went by on Wednesday: “Sorry, we ran out. Come back on Friday.”
And I went back on Friday: “Sorry, I just got hired and don’t know what I’m doing because no one works here for longer than three months because clearly this company’s headquarters is situated deep in the bowels of hell.”
So on Monday morning our cars were gone.
I tried to be a reasonable person. I overcame my deeply entrenched fear of interacting with other people, and I went to the office to speak to the manager. TLDR; they didn’t care. They weren’t going to bring the cars back, they weren’t going to refund the money, we were shit outta luck.
Between the Uber and the towing fees, it was $560.
And lo, a grudge was born.
I knew I should probably write a letter to the management company and use all my skills of persuasion to make them see the light and write me a cheque. But if you’ve been here a while then you know I’m disinclined to follow the path of “should probably.” So instead, I decided I’d let them repay me with the pure unadulterated amusement I get from being annoying as hell.
Write a letter? Psh. I’m going to write notes.
I’ve started leaving them on anything and everything I find disagreeable about our building. To be fair, everything about this place is disagreeable to me now because I’m a Burn Bridges and You’re-Dead-To-Me kind of person– but I only get around to writing notes when my annoyance coincides with having a marker and piece of paper on hand.
It started with a door. This is the door we use to take Zola outside when we remember we own a dog. It’s also the route by which 40% of the occupants would flee the building if it were on fire. Which is why it was low-key concerning when the handle stayed broken for two weeks.
And then there was the light in our hallway, which blinked on and off in rapid succession. Um, sorry, but unless this is the set of Stranger Things and I’m about to meet Winona Ryder/Josephine March, then clearly something must be done.
But let’s not forget about the stairs. Like the world’s drabbest example of Expectation v. Reality, they decided to cover the staircase with this thick skid-proof rubber. Which would’ve been a great idea, except it’s constantly slipping forward. Which is less skid-proof and more skid-enabled.
I realize I’ll never be able to give my apartment complex anything in writing– unless I use my left hand– but I’d like to think that by nurturing this grudge with all the love and light of an Instagram Mom, I just may have saved some lives.
Your turn– Tell me about your most precious grudge.
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