Wednesday, March 17, 2004

Tomorrow I sign my new lease, gentle reader, and it will be a watershed in my personal history. Six months ago, I apparently filled out an invitation to get sauced by B&A Associates. Longtime readers will remember the numerous housing perks: temperamental wiring, mini-blinds targeted at my skull, windows fused shut by expert painting, cracked panes, radiators endowed with a single setting, and a kitchen sink that frequently emitted a frighteningly loud gurgle at opportune times, such as 4:15 AM. I’d be thankful for the roof over my head, make no mistake, if it weren’t for the fissures in the ceiling.

“Why didn’t you call maintenance?” I hear you ask. Let me reply with an anecdote. I returned home on December 19th to find my deadbolt locked. Since I didn’t have a deadbolt key, I called up the groundskeeper to unlock my door. When asked about the strange state of affairs, he informed me that maintenance had probably done some “work” on my apartment during the day.

I entered my studio and found that the windows were fused better than ever. What’s more, I was missing $90.00 worth of Gamecube discs–a small loss, to be sure, but the shining apex of my B&A experience. The police were convinced that subletter and former suitemate Jeff was the culprit. This made perfect sense because, as you may well imagine, the draw for non-stealing types to drive three hours from Peoria to pocket a bunch of shitty games is indeed strong. The leasing office promptly denied any scheduled maintenance, and I also found out that “rudimentary system for tracking keys” was synonymous with “none.” To paraphrase Ms. Theron in The Devil’s Advocate, my house f*cked me eight ways to Monday.

This will hopefully change, of course, when I move to yuppie Wilmette. Central air, concrete walls, lot parking, all for $150.00 less. Perhaps I’ll donate some of this windfall to help B&A redirect their homepage to bendover.biz, a more accurate portal.