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Notes from the Landlord.
BY BRANDI WELLS
The dishwasher is not purposely melting your Tupperware. It does not intentionally suck the plastic lids down to the bottom and fry them. The dishwasher is not malicious. It is not jealous of your management position at Blockbuster. It does not try on your button-up shirts while you’re at work. It doesn’t cinch your belt around its waist and stare into your mirror, proudly puffing out its chest. The dishwasher is not fucking your girlfriend. And it isn’t the one who’s going to evict you for not paying your rent. That’ll be me.
I do not need a trash bag full of rotted food to understand your fridge is broken. I cannot communicate telepathically with the maggots. I do not discern patterns in their squirming that allows me to commission a maintenance man to come and repair your fridge. In fact, I have no method for communicating with bags of garbage. They do not speak to me. The words “my fridge is broken” will suffice.
No one from management is mad at you. We did not come to your house and flush tampons and paper towels down your toilet. We didn’t laugh while we watched them swirl down the drain. We don’t leave your bathroom light on in order to run up your power bill. We don’t drink your beer and sleep on your sofa. We are not Goldie Locks and you’re no bear. If your toilet is clogged, it seems likely that you have deposited something in it that might produce a clog.
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