Fuck you, Apartment.
Fuck you for being so charming when we first came here.
Fuck you for seducing us with your big, bold balcony and being on the second floor so I know that firemen can rescue me if there’s a problem.
Fuck you for having some douchebag that scrawls “CLEAN UP YOUR DOG SHIT” on the doors to go outside. Who made them the poopie police?
Fuck you for all your issues that give me issues.
Fuck you for the garage construction project that’s been going on since October with no end in site, yet we’re still paying for parking even if our spot isn’t always ours.
Fuck you for the three washers that don’t have a reliable stream of hot water and the fact that sometimes your dryers take money off my card but won’t turn on.
Fuck you for not having any lights by the doors in the back where we take the dogs out. Do you know how many times I’ve fumbled with my keys while trying to open the door?
Furthermore, fuck you for there being no garbage cans outside for me to toss my baggies of dog poo in. Sometimes I throw my poo in the lobby trash can just out of spite because I hope it stinks in the morning when everyone is walking through. I especially hope the poopie police goes through the lobby on those mornings.