Dear University Apartments…

WARNING. I AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW. THIS IS AN INAPPROPRIATE POST.

Hades

Dear University Apartments,

Firstly, you really need to change your name to University Dorms Off Campus, because, lets be real, you aren’t actually an apartment complex. You’re a sad, worthless excuse for a dorm that happens to be off campus with a (tiny) kitchen and a (tiny) laundry room. For the unacquainted, “The U” (well aren’t we just clever and modern) does not, in fact, allow you to do adult things like pay your own utilities, choose whether or not you want cable, or choose your internet provider. You pay a monthly flat fee with utilities included unless you have an overage (which, during the summer, you will). It’s idiot-proof, my-first-housing. Now, those of you who know me know that I really hate all the hand-holding that tends to go on in and around colleges. When I lived on campus, I lived in a dorm that had lots of upperclassmen, so it was very hands off; however, after meeting new people, I realized that freshman dorms are not, in fact, housing for anyone who is competent. Apparently, large, freshmen dorms have check-ins where you have to show ID. Guests must be claimed. RAs are actually involved in your daily life and do more than just plan tiny parties and clean up broken mirrors. When I was in high school, my parents started traveling farther and farther away for art shows, and, as I aged, I did not have to go with them to these shows. I have also had a job and a car since I was sixteen, which means that before college, I had a decent chunk of experience doing things like buying my own food, cooking, doing laundry, vacuuming, buying my own clothes, and, you know, just general living without anyone else butting in. This leads me to my second point.

University Apartments, please fuck off, die, and decompose into a maggoty soup. SOME of your residents did not, as a matter of fact, choose to live here because of your SUPER COOL AMENITIES. I know that you have A POOL, A GYM, and FREE COFFEE AND (awful) BREAKFAST IN THE MORNINGS! I know that you have ACTIVITIES! You know, for people who really miss the feeling of a school dance. You project POOR QUALITY MOVIES sometimes! For the people who really want to watch a grainy image projected onto an inflatable screen. And you know what, my dearest apartment complex, I deal with that. I deal with hearing crappy movies in my room. I deal with the noises from the pool. I live right by it, so whenever you have an activity or the bastards who also live here decide to bring out a boom box, I get to hear it. And I have always been relatively OK with this.

Until now. See, it’s finals next week. I have gallons of work to do (not that I will be doing it). I just got back from work, and I come into the complex and hear a ghastly sound: Bad club music. And I hear this sound far sooner and louder than I should. I come into my apartment, and I can hear it in the living room, which is usually the more quiet room. I go back in to the lair of the Cuddly One, and he has closed my door (fun fact: at normal noise levels, you can hear the sound more loudly from my room than you can from his window) to prevent more noise leakage. I come into his room to see him engulfed in his headphones. I’m already not pleased, and I decide to go down to the office and say something to management. This is their party after all. I’m sure they don’t realize that it’s louder than normal.

Once in the office, I am directed to the manager (AKA the only person who works here older than 22. There is nothing more disconcerting than signing a lease and giving it to some punkass college kid. Seriously, he could have sold it for beer money). I explain that the music is a lot louder than normal, and ask if they can turn it down a bit, as it has permeated the entire apartment. I also lied and said that it was vibrating the windows because this place is a hell-hole and, I figured that they wouldn’t do anything for just too loud.

“I’m sorry, but it’s our end of the year party. We’ve been advertising for a while, so you should have been able to arrange to be somewhere else.”

“Yes, but it’s also the weekend before finals. I’m not partying. Also, your other parties and activities aren’t this loud. Like, I can’t hear the movies you play in my living room. This is louder”

“Listen, I will personally pay your cab fare to go wherever you want. We can send you to Jittery Joe’s or whatever, but we aren’t turning down the music. You can go wherever you want though.”

“Well, what I want is to be able to study in the apartment that I pay for.”

“The party is only until six-thirty. I’ll pay for you to go somewhere.”

I don’t actually remember what I said before I turned around and left the office. It might have been “well” or “no” or just “ugh,” but I do remember muttering “fuck off cunt” before I slammed the office door. The problem is that, when I get angry, I have trouble remembering exactly how loud I am. I mean, I was livid. I love how turning down their music would just, like, RUIN their end of the year party (SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKERS! THE YEAR ISN’T OVER. WE STILL HAVE FINALS AND CLASS ON MONDAY.) I wasn’t saying, “Umm, can you turn off the music.” I was saying that it was significantly louder than normal, which it is, and asked if they could turn it down just a bit. You know, so I couldn’t hear it loudly and clearly in every room in my apartment. Hell, right now, I’ve got that little vibration in my ears that you get from loud bass. I also love how I should have to VACATE MY RESIDENCE because the complex is throwing a small party at the pool.

Listen, I hate my apartment for many reasons. I pay way too goddamn much for it. The kitchen and laundry room are miniscule. Our oven is too small for a pizza pan. Our shower and toilet are disgusting. The carpet isn’t actually attached to the floor properly. I found this out when I was mopping the kitchen and the edge of the carpet came right up off the ground when I brushed against it. Our upstairs neighbors keep flooding their bathroom and leaks down into our walls and through our ceiling. The windows in my room don’t close properly. We have bugs. Always. Our couch is a piece of shit that fell apart (we will now have to pay for it). The internet that we have to have is balls. I would not have moved in here if I had another option because this place is tiny, dirty, nasty, and full of idiots who shouldn’t be allowed near outlets or sharp objects. The office is entirely run by idiot college kids. I hate this place. I have to live here until August. I want to get a gun and pick off partiers and DJs and employees, one by one from my window. I want to burn this place to the damn ground. I want the company that owns this place to go bankrupt. I want these apartments to be condemned as unfit for human habitation. I want the woman who offered to buy me a cab (Fuck you. I have a car. I just don’t want to have to LEAVE MY DAMN HOME BECAUSE YOU’RE HAVING A SAD PARTY) to lose her job and pick up a heroin addiction.

Plates

I JUST HATE EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW, OK. A LOT. AND I WANT TO BURN IT TO THE GROUND.

On the GROUND

OR THROW IT ON THE GROUND. BOTH. EITHER. WHATEVER.

So, if you are one of the 20-30 (no, I am not joking) people down at the mother fucking pool at University Apartments, just know that I hate you and everything you do. Especially if you are the fucking DJ.

EDITED NOTE: Now that I am less angry, I figured that I would clarify that I don’t actually want to shoot anybody or burn anything down, nor do I really want the manager of this party to come down with a drug addiction. I really hate my damn apartment, and I needed to rant. What are blogs for? Anyway, I have something of a personal policy about deleting comments/posts on the Internet, so I intend to leave this rant up. I just wanted to clarify that I was speaking with figurative rage so that the police don’t show up at my door. I love you all.

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