It could be worse. At least I'll never have to cook for the next forty years.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What a day.
This morning a dickhead in a flashy white ute--you know, the penile-extender ones that are never used for transporting heavy goods (except inflated bogan egos) because they might scratch the paintwork--cut me off at a right-turn area in between a dual carriageway, blocked off my view, and sped ahead of me. And the guy did all this while talking on his mobile phone.
I cursed his mother and grandmother, and prayed that his member would shrink and 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, you misbegotten progeny of a diseased camel! I'll show you mucking around. ARRRGH.
Several times today I have entertained the thought of blocking out the car's licence plates, and getting my little brother to drive 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.