I have been having very violent thoughts towards Sr. Loco lately, thoughts that go beyond snuffing out his life through mere poisoning. No, that route is too easy and quick and frankly, won’t give me the satisfaction I crave. Instead, I want to wring his neck with my bare hands or pound him silly with a blunt object. Blame it on the stress of moving, my car breaking down and his COMPLETE INCOMPETENCE to do anything right. Grrr.
First things first: yes, we had to move. Our land lady came to us with a very sad story about her financial insolvency and her need to sell the place. Our lease was up at the end of July and she wanted us to rent on a monthly basis afterwards until she found a buyer--wonderful for her, to have that continual source of income, but not so great for us to be in rental limbo. So we searched for a place and within a week found a nice little spot not too much farther away from the lab (and still within biking distance for me. Yeah!). However, Poor Landlady (PLL) was extremely displeased with our moving out at the end of our lease. She threatened to withhold our security deposit because we only gave her 28 days notice instead of the required 30 stated in our lease (never mind that days 29 and 30 were over a weekend and that she notified us about her intention to sell on day 37, essentially locking us up for another month anyway.) As it turns out, she was able to sucker another person into renting and so we, in fact, will get our deposit back. This is fabulous news because I now have to replace my front tires and get them realigned.
Which brings us to story two; I blow a tire. At my last car servicing, the mechanic suggested that I get my front tires replaced as I have no tread left on them. I had full intention of doing so…..just not this soon. This weekend as we were moving and making numerous trips between the two houses, one of my tires decided to call it quits and blew on me. Luckily, this happened right near the servicing station where I take my car. This was especially convenient because the nuts refused to budge and there was no way to put on the spare. However, what ensued can only be termed as a logistical nightmare. We still had a lot to move, I somehow needed to get to the lab so that I could feed my fish (which need feeding twice a day), I needed to get to church the next day, and we needed to move my bike so I could have some sort of transportation. Yikes.
But Lady Susan, what does this have to do with Sr. Loco? Don’t worry dear Reader, I am just laying the groundwork. I needed to show you the delicate state of my psychosis prior to the introduction of Sr. Loco’s incompetence. Now let us begin:
The bills: The majority of the bills are in Sr. Loco’s name. To quote him, “I don’t want you to have to deal with it.” I suppose in his twisted mind, this is a form of gallantry. However, it is a gallantry I could well forego, because in essence, it means that NOTHING GETS DONE. With days to spare, he still hadn’t changed anything over to the new house. Only through repetitive nagging from me and other roommate (K) did the electricity get changed……yesterday. We felt like we were asking him to do some dreadful and horrible task (imagine a dirty stinky boy being dragged towards a bath by his mother and you might get close). As for the internet, it remains a mystery--one that Sr. Loco refuses to solve. Were these bills in my or K’s name, things would be settled by now.
The money: Sr. Loco used to make bank. He had a sweet scholarship that allowed for the buying of a new vacuum, a new grill, a new TV, a large rug, multiple pictures, multiple frames and who knows what else (we won’t even touch the topic of why he wasn’t putting anything in savings). But because he didn’t want to exert the minimal effort of a monkey to maintain a B average, he lost it. Now he makes the same lowly salary as the rest of us. Obviously he is having issues adjusting to the new budget because when it came to paying first months rent at the new place……he didn’t quite have the money. This meant that although all of our stuff was at the new place, we had to pack our overnight bags to sleep on the floor of the old. Imagine the inconvenience for me not having a car and needing to ride my bike. K ended up paying for his part of the rent with the understanding that he would pay it the next day (when he would finally have funds) just so we didn’t want to spend more than one night at the old place.
The plants: I had an herb garden at our previous location. For the past week, I have been ruminating on what I was going to do with it. I wanted to take the plants with me but I wasn’t sure whether or not to put them in the ground or to plant them in pots. After the car incident, I realized that I would probably not get to them before the 31st, so I emailed PLL and asked her if I could pick them up later (after all, I wouldn’t have to go into the house at all.). She said that was perfectly fine. However yesterday I received a phone message from Sr. Loco (too bad you can’t hear the voice….so classic):
“um, [Lady Susan], I noticed that your car was still in the shop today, um, and that you haven’t had a chance to move your plants. Um, don’t worry about it, I am going to transplant them…..uh, bye.”
I immediately called him back to tell him DON’T MOVE THE PLANTS. I told him that I had already talked to PLL and that I would take care of it.
Later that evening……
“he he, I got your phone message five minutes too late, he he, I already moved them. However they are a bit crowded, he he, so you might want to re-do it”
Cue me thinking violent blood-curdling images. The plants? Stuffed into a pot with hardly any breathing space, let alone room to grow. He also failed to transplant my rosemary, so I have to go back anyway to get it. And then where does he put the potting soil? Upstairs in the attic. Idiotic! This is after a conversation where we all agreed that putting potting soil and other garden items inside the house WAS A BAD IDEA!
So yeah, Sr. Loco can’t be depended on to fulfill basic responsibilities and then takes on tasks that are not his responsibility and screws up. So my question: at what level of intelligence does killing cease to be called murder and instead becomes allowable. After all, no one locks you up for killing a fish, and as far as I can see, my fish are way smarter than he is.
*With all this talk of killing, I should remark that I am against violence of any sort, neither do I condone it. Under no circumstances would I even contemplate killing another person. I hope now you can all sleep tonight and not worry about the eternal damnation of my soul.