Another week, another bag of complaints and another tirade; but at least it gives me something to write about.
Last week’s topics of despondency were partially resolved.
The cigar-smoking nincompoop downstairs from me disregarded my brainstorm and continued to stink up the place with his cheap stogies; although, expensive ones like a good Cuban would smell as bad, if not worse.
I bet he called to find out if the apartment complex’s management had actually placed that notice on the building’s bulletin board.
My next resort led me to complaining to the rental office, telling them that the smell and second-hand fumes, caused by the tenant downstairs from me, were a hazard to my health. Evidently, cigar-smoking isn’t against any policy stipulated in the apartment’s lease, for which they offered to send over a maintenance technician to seal up any cracks in my flat that’s allowing the smell to filter in.
In the meantime, I bought an air-purifier which did the trick: no more smell, no more complaint, making me a happy camper again. I’m still waiting for them to seal up my place, but it’s not an urgent situation anymore.
Then there’s Miss Crabapple. I confronted her today about her toilet that runs at all hours of the day and night. She had gone out to do her busy-bodying (is there such a word?) and left her toilet running for about two hours while I was editing some photos. Hearing her coming up the stairs, I dashed outside to give her a piece of my mind.
“Not only did you have the gall to call the cops on me,” I said, “but for the past several months your flipping toilet has been running on and off, for hours on in, overnight and at random hours.” She looked as if I had just revealed a dark, hidden secret, kept sealed away tightly in her anxiety closet.
“Thanks, neighbor,” I continued. “If I had known what a witch you really are, I would have told you to ‘kiss off’ and find some other sucker to help you out when your car’s battery was dead earlier this winter. Remember? If not you’ve got a really short memory.”
With her standing there speechless, I added, “I’m going to call maintenance and complain on you if that frigging toilet doesn’t get fixed soon.”
Miss Crabapple twirled around abruptly like she was doing a pirouette and hustled up the stairs, not saying a word in edgewise. Her face shone with a deep shade of crimson. I sort of felt bad; but then again, no I didn’t. She deserved all the heat I had given her.
She’s been quiet as a mouse since then, fixing her loo immediately upon entering her apartment. I should have offered to fix it myself. It’s not that hard to do; yet, to hell with her. The woman is no friend of mine anymore. That’s a shame.
I suppose the Christian thing would be to forgive and forget, turn the other cheek, so to speak; for which I’ll probably do, providing she fixes the dad-burned toilet.
For my prior weekly cover, I’ve been a bit paranoid about recording lately, as I didn’t want to have another visit by the Bensalem Police. So in lieu of that, I had remixed a tune done a while back and calmed it down some, all while wearing my headphones.
However, after posting it, I noticed the song didn’t get much response or hits on Soundcloud, so I deleted it. It was a bit crude, especially the cover art.
Thanks for your continued support.