Imminent eviction is pretty much a lock at this point.

So our landlord is currently, as far as I know, wandering around our sty of an apartment, holding a clipboard and clucking her tongue at things like the gaping hole where the 9-volt in our smoke alarm probably ought to be, and the power strip plugged into another power strip situation that facilitates our televised entertainment. Not to mention the ramshackle redemption center we’ve set up on the top of the fridge, the various laundry islands dotting the landscape, the unspeakably soiled baby doll head we’ve appropriated for the star atop our fire hazard of a Christmas tree, the framed photo of Crocodile Dundee…there’s a lot in there for a building owner to wonder at.

It wasn’t like we weren’t notified well in advance. Our landlord (a nice enough seeming lady who embarks on a lot of tropical vacations, dyes and tans, and calls everyone “my dear”) called us on Tuesday, and let us know that she was coming in to do a routine inspection, tossing it off as a formality that her insurance company makes her do, no big deal, in and out. Due to the (blessedly) unobtrusive nature of this landlord (especially in comparison to the crap we had to put up with at our previous apartment [don’t share a duplex with your landlord, it’s unwise]), her heads-up wasn’t perceived as a terrifying impetus to run around our living space, making it look like clean people who care about life live there, as would have been the case if we had a big mean scary landlord. So we of course did nothing, the place is a mess, and we might as well have decorated by hanging dead flaming child corpses from the ceiling, so irresponsibly-maintained is our quarters. In our defense, we did just recently move most everything that used to be in the living room into the bedroom, and vice-versa, and that has led to various little piles (containing, say, two copies of Women’s Health magazine, a rubber Hulk Hogan action figure, three hair ties, a VHS copy of “Return of the Living Dead”, and a bra) of clutter clutter clutter.

What might have been an intelligent way of using last night’s time would have been to tidy up a bit. Stack similarly-shaped items in an ostensibly attractive manner. Find homes for sandwich remnants. Wipe whatever that orange crusty shit is off the bathroom wall. Instead, we went to my parents’ place to do laundry. My parents, as many of you know, live in the middle of the forest. Large horned animals habitually parade across their lawn, and some of their neighbors are mystical beings. Seriously, these people, my parents, they totally live in the woods. The expense of carting all of our clothing to my folks’ place most likely equals, if not exceeds, the price of simply driving a mile to our neighborhood laundromat and taking care of business there, but it’s always a nice chance to catch up with Mammy n’ Pappy and wangle a free meal out of the deal. Sadly, were it not for these laundry trips, I’d probably only ever see them on holidays, even though they’re only like 20 miles away. Maintaining relationships with people with whom I do not share toothpaste has never been a strong suit of mine. Anyway, we washed clothes in Maxfield, having actually forgotten entirely about next day’s landlord inspection, or whatever the hell it is she thinks she has to do, and we had the pleasure of watching “Superbad”, which much to our delight turned out to be every bit worthy of the brimming vat of critic ejaculate (crijaculate? no.) drizzled liberally over its makers and stars over the past few months. Just a funny, likable little movie. Fun as the dickens to watch. Reflecting on Judd Apatow’s output, it’s really the only movie of his so far that comes close to capturing the “Freaks and Geeks” essence. Go ahead and watch it, you’ll have a good time.

So the clothes got cleaned, chicken got eaten, lots of DVD episodes of “Criminal Minds” got watched (my Dad got it from Netflix and insisted on viewing it. it was just entertaining enough. mandy patinkin may be better at glowering than anyone in the world.), and then we went home and came back to our comfortable mess and remembered our landlord would be breaking in to “inspect”, and crap shit fuck fart piss. We resolved the situation by dumping our laundry on the floor and passing out.

Today I scrawled a note attempting to explain both the mess (rearranging furniture takes time and effort) and the supposed missing smoke alarm battery (no idea where it is, though the smoke alarm still goes off whenever we take a shower longer than ten minutes or make kitchen mistakes, so ?!?!?), and left it on the countertop. Feeling generally exasperated with our failure to gussy up for the people who house us in exchange for the majority of our meager funds, the realization that I could not seem to locate the car/house keys was an unwelcome one, at best. The fact that they eventually turned up still stuck in the front door from last night, dangling helpfully in the brisk night air for hoodlums to pocket or make immediately use of, lent a sour note to an otherwise beneficial discovery.

In short, everything in the world is hard and it all makes me tired. Updates on the inspection results to follow.


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