It's Me vs. Mandi.

The manager of our apartment complex used to be an old woman. She wore readers on a chain around her neck and sweaters tied around her shoulders. She was afraid of dogs and had soft white/blond hair and soft, glowy pinkish skin. She looked like a walking glamour shot - sans the mall hair and turquoise sequined low-cut gown. Most importantly: She was nice. She understood that the little things...our furnace leaking carbon monoxide, all of our kitchen appliances breaking simultaneously...were not our fault. They were our APARTMENT'S fault. And it was her job to fix them. We had a nice agreement.

We have a new manager now. HER name is Mandi-With-An-I. Her very name makes my soul ache. When they flooded our apartment, she didn't do anything to help us. When we asked about mold, she was condescending and snotty. When we asked to move, she lead us on for a week and a half and then basically told us no in the nasal, eleven-year-old-girl-whiny message she left on our answering machine. I don't like Mandi. When our apartment flooded, I had to move some wet things outside to the patio to dry. Two days later, I got a letter informing me that I was breaking my lease agreement and needed to move the things off my patio under threat of "repercussions". I am 78% sure that she hovers outside our patio fence, waiting for the one time we let the Banana use the outdoor facilities without cleaning it up RIGHT AWAY. Because we get letters. Oh, the letters. Misspelled, poor grammar on fluorescent paper. Short and to the point, always signed 'Sincerely, Mandi' and promising us fines or eviction or Chinese water torture or whatever the hell it is, exactly, that she means by "repercussions".

Anyways. We have two cars: One that runs, one that doesn't. We haven't had enough money to fix the dead one and it's been sitting in the same spot for about three months now. We're also leaving for Canada on Saturday, which is stressfull and expensive. We have so many bills to pay right now I'm not really sure how we're going to pay rent, let alone gas to fucking Canada. Stress. Lots of it.

My bright yellow letter delivered today informed me that maintenance is repaving my lot and I need to make sure my cars are moved to the other side of the complex by tomorrow night. Or else. You know. She'll just have to have it towed at my expense.

YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU MANDI.

Ahem.

THANKS FOR THE FUCKING NOTICE, MANDI.

Please someone send me a house.
Or a car.
Or. Something.
Save me from Mandi.