You know, it's not that my life is ever that bad, it's that it's always on the verge of being that good. Bad luck isn't a curse; it's a rug that's continuously pulled from beneath your feet.
We got a letter from my old landlord yesterday informing us that he does not intend to pay the balance on our security deposit due to damages and repairs to our apartment.
He banked on our good faith, delaying payment of our security deposit for six months before announcing suddenly that we were responsible for $1200 worth of repairs to the apartment.
If anyone out there of dubious morals is feeling charitable, I've got a couple of legs you could attend to.
He sent along an itemized bill detailing everything from random stair repairs to the refinishing of the entire first floor.
It's moments like these when your socially ingrained Christian morals depart and you see nothing wrong with actually murdering someone. Not the supposed fictional retribution fancied by the imaginative, I'm talking actual murder.
Cold, calculated assassination.
When I put my mind to it, I get completely frazzled. Yesterday, I was shaking so badly with teeming anger that I had to buy a pack of cigarettes just to calm my rage.
I can't even begin to contemplate why this keeps happening to me.
Why is it that the world seeks nothing more then to screw me, yet no woman seems to feel the same need?
