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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The neighbors probably think that we’re cooking meth

It’s stir-Friday!

Stir Fry Prep 1

I can’t take credit for that phrase; if you don’t already know where it’s from, you should watch Archer. It comes on FX at 10:00pm Thursdays, and the first season is on Netflix. /plug

So! Cuddles and I decided that we wanted to make stir-fry tonight. Well, I decided that I wanted to make stir-fry, and Cuddles went along with my shenanigans. We made a chicken stir-fry with onions, broccoli, zucchini, and red bell peppers. We followed the guide located here, and made the lemon sauce. Cuddles was not a fan of the lemon sauce, and I was only a fan of it after copious amounts of soy sauce, but other than that, everything went well. Cuddles prepped the chicken, I prepped the vegetables and sauce, and he cooked everything because I am deathly afraid of hot things which is why my newest hobby involves ovens.

Stir Fry Prep 2

Here is Cuddles frying some stir.

Stir Fry Complete

Behold! It’s real food that we put together and cooked. It has undergone a chemical change since we purchased it. I have never felt more like a real adult.

However, if you look at the recipe at the site, you’ll notice that the key to stir fry is keeping the pan hot. Really hot. You’re supposed to turn the heat on your pan before you start prep, then turn on your fan before you start cooking. Now, maybe in a normal house that has a real fan over their stove, this is no problem. Real stoves generally have a fan with an exhaust pipe in order to suck up smoke. Terrible apartments, on the other hand, just have a normal fan above the stovetop. Now, when you heat a pan up for about 45 minutes, then put oil and marinated chicken in said pan, a certain phenomenon occurs.

Me: Umm, the house is filling up with smoke. I think we’re going to set off the alarms.
Will: Don’t worry; the smoke alarm doesn’t work.
Me: Oh thank God.
Will: Ah, well, the one on our side of the apartment doesn’t. Y’all’s does.
Me: (runs to close door to her side of the apartment)
Will: I think we should open the door. (He opens the front door)

Three minutes later

Will: I’m going to put on the ceiling fan. (Turns on fan and closes door to the other half of the apartment)
Me: The police are going to show up. They’re going to think that we’re smoking the demon reefer. Or a bunch of hungry college students are going to show up, sniffing and asking for stir fry. Let’s face it: the neighbors probably think that we’re cooking meth.
Cuddles: I think the onions are burning.

It was quite delicious all the same.

This post is very boring, but I have inflicted it on you anyway.

Hrm. I suppose that I should post something.

Well, I waited until two and a half hours before my paper (on Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll) was due to even start it. I have no idea why. I mean, I made a blog and wrote a post to stall it. Then, I went to bed when I wasn’t even tired. THEN I snoozed the early alarm I had set for myself (so that I could write the paper after I had slept some) until my normal wakeup time, and THEN I did not start my paper during the thirty minutes before my first class (I felt that reading Wuthering Heights was a far more pressing concern), nor did I work on it during that class even though I had my computer out and was not paying attention. I do not even know what is wrong with me. I did get it done, though I’m not sure how quality it is.

Anywho, my life has been exceptionally lazy since then. The snoogally one and I went out for an early Valentine’s Day dinner on Thursday, and we went to a birthday party on Friday. I am currently at the home-home rather than the apartment-home or the dorm-home (aka, the storage unit with a roommate) because I needed to do my taxes, and I actually like my family. My Madre is in the process of making a daybed out of a futon. My Padre has been roped into helping her, and he had to help me do my taxes. Poor Padre. Also, I get 31 dollars back from the government because I make no money. I was informed that I might actually have to get a real, live job this summer that actually gives me hours (unlike every other goddamn job that I have ever worked.) I might also put in the effort (money) to get the AC in my car fixed so that I do not wind up driving in HEAT BOX OF DOOM for a third summer in a row.

I feel like I should have some sort of interesting story to tell. I do not think that I do. OH WAIT! Tonight will be a night of EPIC NERF BATTLES! IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAVE TAKEN PART IN AN EPIC NERF BATTLE! I WANT TO GO TO WALMART AND GET SOME MOTHERFUCKING DARTS FOR MY MOTHERFUCKING NERF BLOWGUN. WHAT? YOU DON’T HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING NERF BLOWGUN? YOU SHOULD INVEST IN ONE; my ring finger is getting sore, so I’m going to need you to just imagine that I am shouting (No I cannot just press capslock! Why? Because.) Also, this is my gun:

LIKE A BOSS. It’s a motherfucking Firefly (YOU CAN’T TAKE THE NERF FROM MEEEEEEEE!) It can even light up when it shoots! And yes, yes those are glow in the dark darts. I’m going to get some matching glowing darts for my blowgun. Because I can. I also have two less-legit guns:

LIKE A BOSS FOR LESS.

I mean, I pretty much always lose, and I rarely do anything because I am ultra cautious, but dammit, there are forts and guns and under my sweet, girlish exterior lies a warrior ready to riddle the enemy’s skull with foam ammunition. Yes.

‘Cause I was Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll…

Good evening dear reader(s)!

I should, even right now, be working on a paper (On The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll), but I am not. I should be contemplating the question of Stevenson’s critique of Victorian society. Well, I technically I am doing that. It isn’t too difficult a question. The problem is that I have to squeeze four pages out of the idea that repression leads to even greater wrongdoing. I know, right, what a new and exciting idea. I am certain that no one has ever thought of it.

…And my vagina has now been compared to the One Ring. I do not even want to consider all of the complications that comparison will lead to.

On a less terrifying note, I am really disappointed with this paper’s limitations. My choices are all doable in terms of writing, but they are also a little blah, and I feel like there is so much more to talk about in these stories that we didn’t bring up. I really wanted to look into the language of the Doctor in the “Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk.” Hell, the language of the Prince in all of The Suicide Club would be worth looking into as would the descriptions of the American man, Silas. Of course, this means next to nothing to you, dear reader(s). After all, I tried to discuss this with friends over lunch, but none of them have read The Suicide Club, so it made the conversation a little bit lame. And I didn’t discuss any of this story in class because, well, I hadn’t read any of it until we got to the last of the stories. Naturally, that was the day that, instead of fully discussing the text, we did an exercise on summarizing and ways of looking at text. I’m hoping to remain caught up in the class from now on because it really is a nice class. It’s only boring when I haven’t done the reading. Plus, the teacher is very nice, so I feel bad when I don’t do the work. Blech. Paper. If I hadn’t waited so long to work on it, I might have been able to customize a different topic based on…

Something in Jon’s room just made a terrifying noise. I think that it was coming from the closet, but it is hard to tell with his ridiculous speakers. Seriously, it sounded like the noise a high-tech bomb makes in a bad action movie. Like The Fifth Element. That sort of multi-toned beeping. Creepy. I really hope HAL isn’t plotting anything. I would not doubt that this computer has some form of sentience. It does turn itself on sometimes. Leave it to The Boy to inadvertently invent Skynet.

…the other ideas that I had. Of course, that would take a whole lot of research that I simply do not have time to do. I also think that emailing my topic to my professor at 10:30PM doesn’t count as getting approval ahead of time. Ah well. I also have a Microtheme due on Thursday, but it doesn’t get turned in until before midnight, so I will deal with it then. I desperately want my draft back for that class. I probably shouldn’t talk about it too much since my feelings are largely negative. I’d rather not have to take it again due to some errant blogging.

On that note, I really must head off to skim The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll.

You’re welcome.