Sorry about the whole lack-of-posting thing. I've been diligently working on a chapbook (short collection of poetry) to hopefully sell the crap out of at a poetry reading I'm headlining tomorrow night. The chapbook is done and I've been editing my other chapbooks. I'm trying not to let the anal retentive perfectionist thing get too out of hand. Soon I shall away to Kinko's where they will hopefully not fuck up my very hard work and I will walk out with a few copies of some new books and all will be glorious in the universe, can you say hallelujah.
I toured a house last night with my realtor. We met at 6:55 PM. At 7:06 PM, I was not only back in my car, driving away as fast as possible, but I had spent a couple minutes standing outside my car talking to the realtor. The problem? The house reeked of animal pee. I'm not sure how many animals they had (other than their Cujo-like dogs in the backyard) but all of the animals had apparently been allowed -- nay encouraged -- to pee inside. On the carpet. That was horribly and visibly stained. If you haven't yet imagined how awful the experience was, here's something else: I couldn't tell the owners were smokers because all.I.could.smell.was.pee. I literally developed a headache from the smell in the few minutes we were inside. The realtor asked if I wanted to see the upstairs and I gave her my best "stop doing so much crack" look. When the owner asked if we'd gone upstairs (having only been out of her sight for the duration of a commercial break), the realtor smoothly said something about me not needing that much space and that it would go to waste, something something blatant lie not mentioning a word about the pee smell blah blah blah. No wonder she drives a Lexus.
In addition to the pee horror, the owners were horrible packrats. The shelves they had installed in the kitchen went to the ceiling and were jammed full of stuff. The floors were covered in that cheesy peel-and-stick "tile," there was a frightening collection of dolls dressed in Victorian-era clothing in the living room, and the television was, I kid you not, 6' tall by 4' wide. Apparently they spent their money on the TV (and the dolls) instead of, say, cleaning products.
1 new best friend(s)!:
Let me be the first to say... "ew". I saw some serious scum-holes when I was house-hunting, so I feel your pain. I looked at one place where, on a plate, there was a several-day old cheeseburger.
With a cigarette extinguished in it.
In the bedroom.
*hurl*
Don't let it get you down. There's a lovely, cozy abode out there for you somewhere.
Post a Comment