MORE LANDLORD RANTING.
For Halloween, I went as a lesbian.
Okay, so the truth is: my last-minute plans of going as a Girl Scout or a missing remote control were foiled by the lover and I making an adventure out of going to Mordo and Jen’s place down south. Meaning, we took the train and the bus and then hung out at ATC while waiting for someone to pick us up— not exactly something I’d like to do in a Girl Scout uniform or with two cushions stuck to my side. MEH.
So anyway, a blight to what could have been a perfect weekend (practically spent in bed, recuperating from the Juans’s awesomtastic Halloween party) with the lover: more landlord issues. I’m seriously sick of dealing with our two psycho landlords who are obviously determined make our remaining months in their building a living hell.
For the past eight months, my two housemates and I have been renting out this two-bedroom condo unit in the perpetually noisy Xavierville Avenue. Since we pay for the rent and the utilities, we expect to be able do as we wish. After all, it’s not a boarding house or a dormitory, yet the landlords lay out silly rules as if it were. We can’t have people sleep over without a written request (which is “not guranteed and subject to approval”) and we also can’t have visitors stay beyond midnight (a rule we continually and purposely break).
It was kinda tolerable, really, even though the asshole night guard with the faded blue uniform would ring our doorbell at midnight to remind us that it’s time to kick out our visitors. We kinda just learn how to bring in our guests in the afternoon and keep them inside the unit til the next morning. I was able to shrug off that incident when the nice guard went up to our unit to inform us that the landlords were planning on having the lover’s car towed, even though it was a Sunday and the shops downstairs were closed and there was no shortage of parking slots ANYWHERE. I was also able to laugh at and make a joke out of that time when the crazy landlord wife confiscated our umbrellas that we left outside our door for drying. I mean, Jesus Christ, how petty can someone get?
Unfortunately, I reached my limit when the asshole night guard semi-bitched at me yesterday, at 3am. You’re a security guard and I know you’re just doing your job and carrying out orders but you don’t talk to me in an arrogant tone and you don’t threaten me, saying that you won’t ever let my guest in— especially my lover— while you’re on duty. You’ll have the right to ban my guests the day you fork over money to pay for our rent and our monthly bills, you understand? As for the landlords, we’ll consider following their stupid rules once they give us our copy of the contract that explicitly states that we can’t have visitors past midnight, that we can’t have people sleeping over (because our friends are thieves and druggies and pedophiles and are threats to the building’s security and would rather troll the building’s three floors at two in the morning than spend time with the awesome inhabitants of Unit 2A *insert rolling eyes here*), that we can’t have people parking in the building (by the way, we were told before we got the unit that we’re entitled to one parking slot), and that we can’t leave our umbrellas to dry outside the unit.
GAH. I’d like NOT to deal with this crap, thank you very much. Three things about them:
1) We don’t have a copy of our contract. The first time Allah attempted to ask for it, they asked her why. The second time, they yelled at her.
2) They don’t pay taxes.
3) This all started because we wouldn’t bring our laundry to their laundry shop.
I told my dad EVERYTHING (except that part that I usually have a naked man in my bed during the weekends. That, and the fact that there’s a five-year old Chinese kid I’m holding for ransom stowed away under the bathroom sink) and he wrote down on his nifty to-do list: Helga, lawyer. I seriously hope I don’t calm down and turn soft because I would love nothing more than to ruin their family’s holidays by ratting them out to the BIR.
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. 
