I really like this place I live in now, if only for the spacey room I have, its central and convenient location and the nature reserve in its backyard. Unfortunately, the more I speak with its owner/landlord/janitor (whoever he is), the more convinced I am he is weirder than Boo Radley is in "To Kill A Mockingbird". He must be the most unreasonable, unthinking and illogical old fart living this side of planet Earth.
First, the place is 40 years old (taking the Catholic church in the vicinity as the benchmark which has been around since 1966) and the kitchen is fucking dirty, old and run-down. And this bald-pated, thyroidic, manic-depressive, has-been hair dresser and professional make-up artist for celebrities, wants no foot-print. Holy Toledo! He even does milk baths.......Milk baths? Whose hairy legs is he trying to pull?
Please Mr Baldy, you keep it clean and we will too. Because of that, I now own a pair of flip-flops in the kitchen and another pair of patented CROCS Beach footwear for the hall, dining and the bedroom upstairs. Two pairs in one house! Imagine slipping on a different pair everytime I walk to a different part of the house! Is this sane? Is this normal? Is this human?
He wants my clothes hung out in the open and if it rains, is he going to take them in for me when I am not around? A duplicate defective key and he accuses me of not locking up the main door after I leave home? Not a word of apology even. So what if it is the key-maker's fault? Shouldn't he have checked first before slinging the first shot of accusation?
All the second-hand furniture and he wants me to maintain them in tip-top condition? My brand new red pouch went missing. A mysterious "SPA" word scrawled across my packing carton. My socket panel goes bust. A dent on the surface of the table. All these cannot be the work of the "Ghost" but the work of man - aka MR PSYCHO SICKO BALDY.
He insists on doing up the water taps and latches in the house. He isn't a licensed plumber or keysmith/locksmith, so do you expect the workmanship to be superb? What do we have? Leaky taps and a latch off its hinge.
The rent I pay goes to pay for his clubbing dates till the wee hours of the morning (at his age, I seriously think he should take a second look at himself and his life) , his fag smoking and his acquisition of branded goods. Holy Bald Eagle! Gays do think that aromatherapy is relaxing. I say bullcrap! Exercise , sports and sex do the trick much much better! Now I just don't feel my money's worth paying for his expensive habits.
His soles are as black as coal which testify to the absolute dirt lying among the place. He uses the upstairs bathroom and leaves his filthy footprints which I have to clean up after him. He snores like a pig and sleeps on the floor in the hall, like he were some watchdog (janitor).
The bathroom scrub he has for cleaning up the bath is only waist high. Anyone who has learned first order lever machines knows that the longer the lever is, the less effort it is. A famous philosopher remarked that with this, he could actually move the world. It id really a tedious task but as I am back at running and gymming, I am ok with it still. In fact it provides me with a bout of fresh and challenging exercise fo rmy back and muscles.
On my morning sojourns out for my runs, I notice the throngs of maids up and about, going about their daily chores. I pray they are given the right implements to do their work as I see them using an assorted variety of brooms and rakes (which look suspiciously to be not working very well like the old sapu-lily which must be back-breaking to say the least) to sweep up the dried leaves, wash the cars (usually hosing it down and even in between the tyre rims) and clean the house. I am sure some must be suffering the same fate as me.
Wait! This last one is a BIGGIE. Mr Psycho wants the upstairs corridor lights out! This is like asking the President of the United States to make a public speech naked and then have Monica Lewinsky suck his dick under the rostrum. I mean I can't see in the pitch blackness at dawn when I walk down the stairs! So naturally I switch them on! What does he expect me to do? Run up again to switch it off and then turn it on again when I descend? He wants a circus bozo to entertain him or he needs psychiatric help?
A more viable option would be for him to install another controlling switch down the stairways so I could turn it off below and not run up again! This is absolute madness!
Mr Psycho Sicko Baldy! I hope you have bluetooth technology in your house so you can read all my text messages and blogs! This way, you can see for yourself how sick you are in your mind, body and soul! I hope you burn in hell like the rest of them!
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