Saturday, June 27, 2009

Oh, The Woes of the Middle Class

Dear Resident Manager whom I will, one day, draw and quarter,

Hey there. We have a situation. Since November, the second of the two washing machines on my floor has been broken. Nope-- correction. It has been broken, repaired by your 80-year old husband, broken again, and again repaired. The cycle begins anew every 2 weeks or so. Now mathematics has never been my strongest area of expertise, but it is my calculation that this machine has been broken for 255 of the last 270 days. Clearly, this repair job is ineffective. Actually, I feel strange using the word 'repaired', because we both know this is not what he does. This is the same man who replaced a fuse on my stove... with another fuse from my stove. Now, instead of a malfunctioning right burner, I have a malfunctioning left burner. I blame myself, really. I obviously need to be more specific.

Please, please, please hire a real repairman for the building. I know you love your husband, but he is as useless as a hat full of busted assholes. The man has no clue now to fix shit. My Aunt Nita could do a better job. And she's 98 years old. And she's dead.

I suppose having two washing machines in good working order for a floor with 30+ residents is a lot to ask. Believe me, we've tried to make due. We currently solve the problem as follows: each Sunday, we draw straws to determine who will get to wash their clothes that week. It's kind of fun, actually. When I awake on the Lord's Day, I'm never sure if I'm going to have clean clothes that week, or if I'll have to rotate my wardrobe another 360 degrees. It's terribly exciting, really. It kind of makes me feel powerful and dangerous. Like the sun.

One thing I ask of you, however, is to actually empty out the stagnant wash water from the broken machine. I'm sure you're aware that the machine always breaks mid-cycle, leaving a basin full of grey water. I'm not in love with seeing the floating crust of dirty clothes. You think I'm exaggerating? Observe.





Yummy.

Love,
Michelle

P.S. I'm fucking serious. I will have you drawn and quartered. It hurts.