Thursday, July 30, 2009

On the other hand

It could be worse. At least I'll never have to cook for the next forty years.


What a day.
This morning a moron in a flashy white ute--you know, the type that are never used for actually transporting heavy goods (except inflated egos)--cut me off and spent the whole time talking on his mobile phone.
I used Chinese dialect to curse his ancestors, and prayed that his member would fall off at an inconvenient time in the near future.
Oh, excuse me, my mother just came in to ask me how much funerals cost in Perth and could I please look them up on the Internet. Such a cheery, organised person.
Right, I'm back. The answer? Not as much as you might think.
This afternoon I got rejected from rental by another property manager. Before I'd even put in an application.
Yesterday, at the home open, I heard the manager telling a lady that rent applications would take a minimum of 48 hours to process.
But when I called today to ask another question about the house, she said it had already gone--to people who had seen it that morning.
"That's quick," I said inanely, thinking, 48 hours my arse, to which that daughter of Beelzebub replied in a subterranean-class drawl, "You can't muck around, luv."
Muck around? I only saw the property yesterday morning, lady! ARRRGH.
Several times today I have entertained the thought of blocking out the car's licence plates, and getting my brother to take the wheel while I ride shotgun and do a drive-by egging of the real estate office.
Except of course I can't, now, because I have told the Internets.
My parents are watching Iron Chef on TV and shouting, "That's not how you cut up pineapple! Aiyah! What a waste!"
I am never going to get a (non-scummy) rental property.
This is going to be my life for the next forty years.