Action is finally going to be taken concerning my very own 4,000 pound gorillas. The manager knocked on my door this morning, and at first I thought "Uh oh". But she was more worried about whether I was okay, and then made the decision she's going to personally resolve the situation once and for all.

She also told me "If there are any future problems, call me. And believe me, I will deal with it in a way that will make them think your blow-up last night is tame."

I guess it's something I'm not used to, an apartment manager who actually gives a shit. The closest I came was the first 18 months in Fontana, and after Vicki left, everything fell apart.

Still very likely to be moving in July, however. Eric needs a roommate. One he knows isn't going to fuck him over, decide on a whim to kick him out, or play any funny games with the finances (I think he also is thinking he'll finally be living with someone who can cook). I definitely think the situation would work very well, and I'm all for it. The only other possibility would be getting him into one of the smaller studios here ($600 a month, including utilities). We'll see. But it definitely means at this point that if I move, it's going to now come across as "I got an oppotunity too good to refuse", not "Fuck this".

I've still been emotionally drained, even besides this... I have been feeling very old lately, I've felt overwhelmed watching what this world has become (one of these days, I'm going to go into the store about the full-cirlce journey through Madonnahood, including the two year period where I absolutely hated her, and how it relates to what I'm feeling now to a degree). Watching my family go into another war over money hasn't helped my mood, either.

I'm not close to most of my family. The relatives I was closest to (my mother and grandparents from her side) has been gone for years. Most of my mother's family disowned me because they hate my father, and vice versa. It took many years to begin to develop a close relationship with my father (ironically, AFTER he moved to Texas). There just aren't very many of my relatives I talk to anymore.

A couple of months ago, a local businessman offered my grandmother $150,000 for her house. It's been owned by either her or my late grandfather since 1952, when they moved from Johnstown, PA. It's in a very bad area (high crime, including frequent gang-related shootings, and no local police force), and the house itself is rundown. Bad wiring, leaky roof, bad plumbing, you name it... My father, who has worked in real estate for 30 years, told her flat-out "That place is MAYBE worth $70,000. Take the money and run!" He's hoped for years she would get out of that area, and be able to live somewhere safer and in better shape.

The plan is to tear down the house, and hopefully buy the severely damaged home next to it (nearly gutted in a fire a couple years ago), and expand his car lot he has on the corner.

Well, not all of my grandmother's kids felt the same way as my father. Two of her daughters tried to sue her - one claiming she violated her will by selling the place (how can you violate your own will when you're alive, moron?!), the other suing because she claims the house was promised to her son when she died (the irony is her husband is a multimillionaire. What the hell does she need an aging house in a rotten town for?!). When my grandmother told them the plan was to live somewhere nicer and use the money to take care of herself, they told her to go into a nursing home - nevermind the fact she doesn't want to "rot and die in a nursing home" (her exact words to me last month when she brought my golf clubs up).

It's not a case these two bitches can win. They have no chance. The second the judge finds out my grandmother is alive, he'll dismiss the case right there - because a will is just a notarized document until the person dies, THEN it becomes a binding and legal contract. It's the case of them inflicting grief upon an 82 year old woman who has lost so many things that mattered in her life (her husband, many of her friends, her job when she was forced into retirement). It's like these bastards above me and the grief they caused me, but worse - I'm not 82 years old, and they aren't family.

And, of course, they've tried dragging everyone else into it. My father immediately told both them and his mother "I don't want a cent. Use the money to take care of yourself, don't think you owe me anything." He also has vented to me more than once about "my greedy sisters", saying he's sick of it.

I told my grandmother flat-out "Tell them to go fuck themselves. My father's right. Take the money and run. You're 82, you live your own life, and you're not required to answer to your children. It's a miracle that house hasn't been shot up already (a few bullets have managed to find their way through windows in the past). Move somewhere where you're safe and comfortable and happy. YOU deserve it. Unless your daughters are willing to support you, tell them they have no right to try to run your life."

To give you some more perspective, my family was actually thrown out of the hospital while my grandfather was lying in bed, brain-dead, and kept alive by machines. He went into a coma from which he had no hope of recovery (due to brain cancer) three days shy of his birthday. My grandmother decided to keep him alive for three days so he could have one last birthday, then pull the plug. Well, a fight broke out in his room (likely over money or the will - I've never gotten the nerve up to ask my father, who was there and trying frantically to break it up), and a nurse told them all to get lost - making them the first family I've ever known of to be thrown out of the hospital while a relative is dying because they felt it was an appropriate place to have a family feud. Classy.

There's just some shit that I've already had too much of in my life. My family putting money above all else is definitely one of them... Just more turmoil - the earliest turmoil in my life, to be honest with you - and the kind I don't need anymore of.

Ever.

I think if my wrist ever heals, I need to go golfing. Just a nice, quiet walk around the course... Either that, or just more alcohol. Or both.

At least (I hope) this bullshit where I live is about to die. Finally. I'd hate to have to sue them and destroy their record so badly that they couldn't afford a cardboard box, you know....

Labels: A world gone mad, Gone But Not Forgotten, Mi Vida Loca

You ever just feel like there's no hope, and no matter what you try to do your life is fucked?

Less than eight months ago, I moved out of what was an absolutely terrible situation. I thought I had moved into a better situation - and I needed to, because my patience was completely worn out due to the shit I lived with, and my sanity nearly gone.

It's the same old fucking song...

When I applied here, it was due to the fact this was a nice building, with a nice manager, and the neighbors I had met (at least then) seemed like nice people. What I didn't realize I was getting was an asshole of an owner, and products of our oh-so-wonderful thug/drug culture living above me.

After jumping through hoops to get into here (including having to have my father co-sign, and paying a 150% security deposit due to issues with his credit history), I moved in September 20. Things at least started off nice...

It took less than a month for that to change.

The assholes who live above me (a man and a woman, both look like they're about 20 and have that same shitty attitude I put up with so much in junior high school) decided in mid-October that I needed my eardrums blasted with their god-awful heavy metal. We're not talking that I could hear it, we're talking I had to hang up the phone because I couldn't hear my friend on the other end. Two complaints were made (one by myself, one by someone living next door to them upstairs), and the shit at least stopped for about a month.

I thought, and hoped, it was the end of it. Not even close...

Christmas Eve, it happened again. This time, when I made my complaint, I was notified by the manager that there is a long history of complaints against them - from the person who lived in this apartment before I moved in, and from the people living next to them.

Not to be outdone, they struck again on New Year's Eve. And this time, we're not talking during the afternoon, or evening, but at 5:30am on the 31st. Yet two more complaints (that's three so far - just from me).

Then January 3, at which time the manager asks me "Have you been smelling marajuana?" When I answered I had twice, but had no idea where it was coming from, she said "It's them. I found out about it when they had to go in and do some maintainence in the apartment, and I was told by the staff the entire apartment smelled like pot."

At this point, I am thinking "Oh, boy." But that wasn't all...

"Her boyfriend isn't supposed to be living in there. He's not on the lease. We're supposed to have very strict rules on that".

Great. Being disturbed all hours of the day and night (where I've put up with loud music as early at 5am, and as late at 12am), drug use, and the biggest culprit being someone with no legal right to reside here... Sound familiar?

Complaint #4 lead to three day notice #1, warning them to shape up or ship out.

Well, at that point, the problem died down - for about six weeks. Until the whole thing of blasting their music at 5am started back up. Yet another complaint (that's now five from me alone).

March 23 comes complaint #6 (and three day notice #2) - thanks to the boyfriend and someone else (whom I assume, or at least hope, is a male friend) wrestling and slamming each other into the walls and into the floor (my ceiling) late at night.

Upset and frustrated, I vented in a letter that night to the manager, which lead to a very heated exchange between us when she assumed I was questioning her and her qualifications. That was patched up the next day when I made it clear "I'm not questioning you, I'm puzzled as to why the owner handled a similiar situation one way, and seems to be blowing off this one." That was when I found out that all she can do is fill out paperwork or tell him shit until she's blue in the face, but she has no authority without the owner's approval. And the owner's policy is 3 three day notices, then a 60 day eviction notice.

And, despite the owner knowing this is a serious problem (at this point, I find out there have been 14 complaints to that point by myself, a former tenant, and both upstairs neighbors), the owner doesn't see it as a serious issue - despite the fact the rules clearly state "No disruptive or inconsiderate behavior at ANY time. No loud noise after 10:00, PERIOD." and a supposedly zero-tolerance drug policy.

Five days later, I contact the manager again, this time to suggest "Since the owner is dragging his feet, and even if he decides to get rid of them it's going to take two months, would it be possible to move me into another apartment?" She tells me that is a great idea, that #10 will be available on May 5, and she just needs to get the owner's permission (which she doesn't think will be a problem).

Well, so much for that idea. April 25, I get a note: I asked the owner if you could move into #10. He said no. I'm sorry.

His reason? "I don't want to." Nevermind the fact that I could move everything into #10 in 2-3 hours, and this apartment could be ready by May 9. Nevermind the problems - including illegal activity, a person inhabiting the premesis with no legal right to do so, and fourteen complaints. Doug Wetton wanted to be an asshole - just like with how he laughed when people warned him that the city had an ordinance against his insane paint scheme, or told tenants they were full of shit when he told him they would raise their rent AND security deposit (it is illegal to raise someone's security deposit unless they blatantly damage their apartment and money from the deposit has to be used for repairs).

At this point, with the manager knowing I'm very upset, she tells me "Write up a letter, detailing everything. I'll show it to the owner when he comes down, and try again to get you into #10." She also said "I am sick of their shit, and from now on, if there is anymore trouble, call the police and notify me. Maybe if the owner sees the police are involved, he'll do something."

May 5, yet another complaint and call to the police for disruptive behavior and drug use. This one after the manager told me "Ten minutes ago, he let a very suspicious person in. I decided to conveniently go out and start watering the plants, and smelled marajuana smoke." Cops didn't bother to show up.

May 6, I run into the manager on the way to the post office. She tells me "When she (the woman legally entitled to live in that apartment) shows up to pay her rent tonight, I am going to tell her the shit stops. I'm warning her that she's going to get a letter from the owner, and if anything else happens, they're gone."

May 8, sure enough, they waste no time. Another fun-filled night of chaos, with behavior leaving little doubt that they're trying to harass their neighbors. The police are called again (this time showing up 3 1/2 hours later). When the manager is notified the next morning, she tells me "I'm calling the owner yet again. I'll get back to you." An hour later, she lets me know "The owner has said if the cops show up again, they will receive a 60 day notice and will be out the door."

My thought on this? Wonderful. Sixteen complaints, two calls to the police, and yet it's "one more chance"...

So, now, we get to tonight.

Aparently, deciding they no longer need to follow the rules, they start it up again. I'm laying in bed with a sore throat and an ear infection, and get woken up at 10pm with their horseshit. I finally erupt. I slam my fist and arm repeatedly against my desk and the walls, throw both chairs against the wall (as well as throw my desk chair against the ceiling), then finally scream "I WANT MOTHERFUCKING QUIET, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE!!!". He sits up there laughing it up, Mr. Fucking I'm So Fucking Cool For Making Another Person Miserable.

Miserable, though, isn't a strong enough word. I'm to the point, on one hand, of filing a civil harassment restraining order against him, filing a lawsuit against both of them in small claims court, sicking Fair Housing on the owners (I don't blame the manager, I blame the owners for allowing things to get this bad), and looking for another place to live - already!

On the other hand, I'm very fucking depressed. I had enough of this shit in the last place I lived. I have neither the patience, energy nor sanity to deal with this again. I'm sincerely thinking about taking some sleeping pills and polishing them off with Bacardi on May 28 - just to say "I lived to see 30! Goodbye now, cruel world."

Things were supposed to get better. Yet, my living situation is now nearly as bad as the one I moved out of, I'm stuck with an apartment owner who sold me out, I've had some very ugly personal issues in recent months, and I'm feeling old. Very old. Lately, all I've had on my mind (besides feeling like a prisoner in my own home), is names from the past, long since departed.

My friend Amanda Carter, killed nine days short of her ninth birthday by a drunk driver.

My mother, murdered a week after my thirteenth birthday.

My grandparents, who both passed on in 1997 at the age of 78.

I'm tired of this war. I'm tired of fighting to keep my sanity intact. I'm tired of what this world has become, and trying to exist within in.

For years now, even before George W. Bush, I've been growing ashamed to be an American. And you know why? We have become a society of thugs and punks. Being nice and respectful now means you're "weak" or "gay" or "white" or "Uncle Tom" or "a pansy" or whatever.

The youth of today anymore, in general (and no, this doesn't apply to everyone, obviously) go through life with a chip on their shoulder the size of Mt. Everest, pushing people around, walking on toes, and taking delight in bringing pain to others.

It seems to be starting at a younger and younger age. Bad parenting, bad schools, peer pressure, and the entertainment industry (though, not in the way you think) are to blame. We've created a society where we've let the bullies and assholes take over (and often times being painted as "heroes"). The entertainment industry has gone out of it's way in recent years to sell itself to the youth of today, reinforcing in their minds that the world revolves around them.

It makes my junior high school seem like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Society is ran by a growing number of thugs who moved on from bullying their schools and now bully the entire country. A growing number of cheap, stupid, arrogant punks who claim they should have the right to do everything they want in life are taking rights away from the rest of us.

They claim they should have the right to do drugs, yet don't respect the rights of us who don't want to be around the shit. They claim they want the right to express themselves, but don't respect the rights of us who don't care to listen to their expression. They claim they should have the right to have fun and party their lives away, but don't respect the rights of us who want peace and quiet.

In other words, the only rights they care about is their own. Fuck the rest of us, we're expected to bow down and submit to their will. Frankly, I don't care if some 20 year old piece of shit with a third grade education, an IQ of 65, and a selfish mentality wants to drug and party his life away. What I do care is when I'm forced to endure the shit. Go do that shit at a rave, or in an alley, or in the middle of an empty field, or on Pluto. You want your rights respected? Respect mine.

I'm too fucking old for this shit. I've put up with 20 years of chaos, dating back to my parents' first divorce. My life, since 1984, has been nonstop turmoil. I don't need anymore turmoil. I want some goddamned peace. I sure as hell don't want to live around your druggie bullshit, considering that I watched what drugs did to my mother's life (directly and indirectly). While I respect their rights to fuck up their minds, bodies and lives, I don't need the grief of being subjected to the shit after the grief it's already caused me.

I don't pay $700 a month rent to have my nerves rattled, to get migraine headaches, to have my tinnitus aggrevated, to have my sleep interupted, to have phone calls interupted, and to be subjected to drugs. That's my fucking right. It's why I signed a lease, it's why I pay rent. I put up with 6 1/2 years of that shit where I lived. If that makes me a bitch, fine. I don't care. I moved here with the understanding this shit wouldn't be tolerated. Instead, it's my former apartment complex redoux.

Part of me is thinking it's time to run away. And part of me is thinking it's a lost cause, that it's hopeless.

I'm too old and tired for this shit. I really am. I'm tired of being freaked out. I'm tired of feeling like it's me alone against the world. I'm tired of crying myself to sleep.

Maybe it's time for me to realize this world is more than I can take.

Labels: A world gone mad, Gone But Not Forgotten, Mi Vida Loca

Anyone out there know who he is?

Well, in case you don't, Bret was a former major league pitcher who won two Cy Young awards. The guy had a notorious pattern of having great seasons in odd numbered years, and absolutely sucking in even numbered years.

Well, for me, it seems like the odd numbered years have a knack for being rotten. And things haven't been much fun lately.

It seems like everyone around me has had a miserable go of it, which hurts to see. That alone would make for a shitty year, watching them suffer and not being able to make things better.

But, then, on top of that, I've had my share of battles (both personal and professional). I was damned tired of the shit several weeks ago - as in tired enough to want to go to sleep and not wake up. Ever. I'm still not feeling so well, to be honest with you. It gets tiring when you feel like your best is never good enough, or feeling like it's somehow your obligation to put up with the shit of uneducated, immature idiots who were raised by rotten parents and are 20 going on 6, or that every door you open has a Zonk behind it...

Furthermore, I've been somewhat busy, which may be somewhat of a blessing in disguise.

Right now, I'm 24 days away from 30 (yes, now all of you know my birthday, which I've kept secret for years!), and I feel like I'm 60. I didn't think I'd live to make it to this point, and as worn out and disgusted as I feel right now, I don't even want to think about seeing 40. Maybe that'll change in the next decade. Maybe not. I just know I'm too tired for this shit.

As far as this blog itself, I'm sometimes not sure if I should continue. I sincerely wonder sometimes if I have managed to alienate everyone on Earth, and to continue posting would result in me talking to myself (and I feel crazy enough without talking to myself). Were my posts early in the year pretty harsh and angry? Yeah. A great deal of that was being angry over real life crap. There's just certain bullshit in my life which I've grown very tired of after three decades, and the more it takes place, the more my patience is worn out. As an old counselor of mine once said to my sister because of the same pattern of behavior over and over again "It's the same fucking song, over and over." And let's just say there's some songs I don't ever want to hear again.

Ever.

Because I am tired of the same song, over and over again. Trust Your Mechanic - one thing's fixed, another falls apart... And sometimes it's the same frigging thing you just fixed that falls apart yet again.

Well, in case anyone has been wondering, I am alive. Thanks to those who contacted me to see how I was doing.

Labels: A world gone mad, Mi Vida Loca