railenthe: (Default)

Pestilence Day… I don't know. Too long.

My “WTF is this Weather I'm stuck in” (for three hours in a laundromat) vine got 2.5k views. Six of us were in there, rocks and branches were flying, and a door kept banging open despite our efforts.

Still the safest place to be.

The power went out four times. I had to restart my dryer twice. I went out from exhaustion… It might have been three times. I distinctly remember being out when the power was, and back when it was once. Pills were missed. Meals were missed. Returning to the apartment—I'll advised, but the only physically possible route—resulted in a SPECTACULAR splat onto the floor, with only the package of sheets I'd bought to cushion my head. I managed to get my sleep pouch out long enough to splat into it.

Two hours into splat, I realize I am so dizzy that I can't move. Getting out is not possible. Dinner is a vending machine cupcake. And I'm in enough pain that this is enough.

I'm heavily medicated right now. Sleep is soon.

railenthe: (Default)

So Yeah: You're not going to believe this.

Then again, you might.

Last chance to bail if you're super squeamish about a certain type of bug! )

You've heard the stories about my apartment building. It's mismanaged all to hell, the building is old enough that there is a fading Fallout Shelter placard on the exterior (as opposed to this positively pristine one mounted on the local Masonic Temple—and I do mean that in the original definition of the word: that thing looks like it came out of the original factory and somehow was protected from all the elemental nonsense that's been thrown at it since it went up). There is enough mold in the building that adding a HEPA system to the unit last year actually did increase my quality of life (I actually haven't had a sinus event since I got the thing). Pieces and bits of the bathroom wall regularly fall in and it takes weeks to get any attention to the problem. I've had to repair my own damn sink a few times because maintenance seems to not care about that issue, and the only reason a gas leak that I've been reporting since I moved in got fixed was because I was out for an extended period of time, there was a draft, and someone else just so happened to smell it.

I'm not saying that you have to have high expectations for a damn public housing complex but base livability would be nice, yannou?

This is the same place when, the BB infestation started a little over two years ago now, certain residents—yours truly included—were called unhygenic, had our morals called into question, told we had fleas and “why don't we try bathing a little more?”

What the miso-glazed fuck?

At the height of my own problem—thrifting was in, I'd had a rather gorgeous sofa sleeper thrifted in because I was getting rid of everything associated with a certain ex. Little did I know, this gorgeous sofa sleeper was going to soon be known as…


Yes, THAT Pestilence Couch. Turned out the store was POSITIVELY RIDDLED with the bastards. And reporting did nothing. So, took drastic measures. I captured one of the fuckers and brought it to the landlord.

“That's a flea.”

…y'all better get used to the phrase “What the miso-glazed fuck” because I actually asked her “What the miso-glazed fuck are you talkin' about? Does this look like a flea to you?”

“Look. I don't know what kind of life you live, what you have—”

“I know you didn't just call me flea-bitten.” A death stare. The landlord is oddly quiet.

“I've already confirmed outside what this is. I'd like a confirmation from the exterminators, and then an extermination.

“If we don't find anything, though?”

“Then y'all are full of it and I'm getting rid of the furniture that brought them in if you're JUST THAT SURE.

On my way back up, I found a neighbor who ALSO had them on hand to report. She lived four floors below me. On the one hand, it was good to see I hadn't tracked them in with that damned Pestilence Couch. On the other, it meant the building is completely fucking fucked.

Three weeks later, Orkin doesn't trip the tripline I set leading to the obvious signs and I have Pestilence Couch removed. You know what else gets removed? Orkin as the building extermination company.

But it ain't over

Fast forward, it's nigh a year of sleeping on the floor, and I replace the bed with something new. The building still has issues. My linens and bed are mostly clear. I'd like them completely clear. I report every one of the bitey bastards, since a winter with them has taught me that I am very allergic. A few times a month the place is sprayed. A few times a month the new exterminator tracks a new one or two in. A few times a month a few hitchhike from the bus and I have to take care of that. It's all very awkward and panic attack inducing. The bugs have invaded my C-PTSD. Apparently it's colloquially called 'bedbug psychosis.' I can kinda see it.

And now the Fuckery

The building manager and the exterminator are in disagreement about my bug status. You know why?


So, what am I supposed to do, let them bite me? Feed? Breed? Leave them be? Fucking fuck no bruh. I literally got orders to “capture one alive to prove it” from the manager

And this morning I got my chance. Yanked him right off the bed and an attempt to get at my ankle and slammed him into a glue trap. Then there was one on my back support pillows for gaming. ONTO THE GLUE TRAP WITH YOU TOO—YES, DEFINITELY SIR WITH THAT SHAPE.

And then I missed my bus for work.

…but, while I was trying to make the intercept walk to my bus, I got called off. Not a day of work this week so far.

I turn around, leave a giant fucking sign with an arrow on it reading BEDBUG by the glue trap, and make a grocery run—smoothie stuff because my stomach is back on the warpath.

By the time I get back (a prescription won't be ready until later, I have to make a second trip), the trap as been moved slightly and replaced with a fresh, empty one.

…got my point across this time.

railenthe: (Default)
 The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.

What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.

Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.

The horror.




I had a plan. Trap it with an envelope and flush it like I did with the one I found on the tote sham.

Problem—this one was live and bouncy. The other was not. It took ten minutes to catch that fucker.

After that I stripped the bed and sent everything to the laundry.

The battle with the bedbugs has been going on for a year. We’ve been through two extermination companies since it began. The landlord has not taken us seriously.

On the first claim, she told me that I had fleas.

If I had the time to think about it I probably would have been arrested for the thing that I thought about doing. I’ve worked in hospitality for almost ten years—I know damn well what one of these things looks like. The couch that was my introduction to the bastards was teeming with them, and when I tried to get the exterminator in, I discovered that he didn’t even look.

…for the record, the new company is not impressed with the old one.

I ditched the “pestilence couch” after getting the all clear (we know it wasn’t) but by then I wasn’t the only one. I’d been on a roll being able to say I’d avoided the things. By then… The entire building had them, all because of the rampant mismanagement going on.

• Dryer sheets don’t repel them or kill them. That’s one of the lies we got.
• Glue traps won’t do shit. These things eat YOU, not peanut butter.
• Those plug in ultrasonic things don’t work.
• Unless they make contact and are baited to eat it, borax won’t be able to work.

So we dealt with the things for a year, and I developed a violent allergy in the process.

…even if you’re living into low income housing, I think you should learn from my mistake—vet your building management.

I thought the maintenance was bad… This is worse.

railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

I came home to this...MESS.  This, and the reek of natural gas.

What the miso-glazed fuck? I mutter as I see that a hole has been cracked in a bottle of cooking oil, a drawer that I was told was fixed in place has been removed, the food that was to be defrosted has been introduced to the floor, and the pantry is simply wrecked.

I wait at the elevator door for a while until a neighbor from my floor comes by, asking if they remembered seeing the electric company come past.

“Yeah, to YOUR place.”

Well no shit. “Did you hear if they fixed—”

“I don't know anything about that,” and she moved on.

I went back to my unit to discover more wrecked food, and after some text based ranting with liberal Angry Smiling Faces I went to the store for bread—

The corner store has Bob Marley sodas again. YAY.

It was on the way back up that I ran into someone talking about the gas being out until just a while ago.

“That was my unit. I've been trying to get a leak fixed since I moved in.”

“And they JUST got to it?”

“Left the joint a wreck, too.”

“I know you're glad that finally got done, but you might have a suit at that rate.”

My, my, my.

I mean, I don't know if I'll be able to act on it, but if my health improves abruptly after this?

You bet.

railenthe: (Default)
 This is a candid of last night's Lockout Debacle. There is strong language.
I had a feeling that there was a problem when I reached for the keys and l got a roll of quarters instead. What I didn't realize was how bad it'd get. 
After a significant round of inventing expletives I called work, the last place I remembered having my keys. I attempted to walk the desk through the combination lock but — and this was a shock — she'd never used one before. A guest did it eventually, but... no keys.
I invent expletives for a bit longer before calling in the building president to get the emergency unlock service, and learn two things: 1, the price has tripled and 2, the guy is AWOL. Three other people are waiting for the unlock guy—two since two PM. As I find a live outlet to charge my phone a neighbor offers couch space—which I reluctantly take him up on, I mean it meant no cold hallway.
I realize something is up when he turns the music from classic rap to classic bedroom R&B. But he's got another neighbor over too so he isn't planning... Right...?
Apropos of nothing: "That can't be your hair." From the other neighbor who was over, an old dude.
With an offended look I yank on my ponytail hard enough to jerk my head sideways a bit.
"Okay, it's real, my bad."
Out of nowhere, Neighbourly Guy: "That hair though, what else is you?"
"Excuse me?"
"I'm looking at your ends there and our hair, it don't do that . You ain't all nigga is you?"
I try to figure out how one would put "gun" in their tone of voice; edge isn't going to cut (heh) it. "I don't see why that has anything to do with anything but my mother was Native American and why are you close up in my head enough to notice the only thing that makes it clear?"
" I unno, jus' something I been thinking about. Can I touch it?"
I'm going to allow my fellow readers of color the moment of horror here: WE'VE GOT THEM TOO.
I am currently far enough away from my computer that I don't have access to my "OH HELL NO" cat gif. Just imagine it here. 
"I—deh—no you may NOT. WHAT HELL."
"Well, see, I been thinking bout it and, like, the one dude you have over sometimes don't be around no more, like now maybe—"
You heard that sound right? The tires screeching to a halt? I'm putting the brakes on.
"No?" He sounded offended.
"I'm not interested in you like that."
"Well see I was just thinking maybe—"
"I am not interested in you like that."
"But if the other guy is gone now—"
At this point I'm liveblogging, texting three people, and have sent The Signal to a pair of friends.
"Tell you what. I'm going to go get a smoke, and you go think about it."
The door closes. I mutter "Shite."
Three minutes after getting the alert my ride out is here I steal out of the creeper's apartment. My Vibrams are ninja quiet on the tile—for which I am thankful, as a cursory glance off the corner hall shows me he's smoking there. I curse under my breath and press myself into the deep dip provided by the elevator door, holding my breath. The damn thing arrives too slowly for my liking, but then I am off and away, unseen.
In the ultimate cliché I jump into the car and shout "DRIVE! GO!" before ducking low until we clear the property.
The key people never called.


Dec. 3rd, 2014 09:58 am
railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

*Barely perceptible tickle on arm*





So I just got back from the front office of the building, to ask about when to expect the problem. I'm getting the impression that the bastards are nesting back up again.

"Well first we have to confirm that's what we do in fact have, not fleas or ticks—"

*record scratch*

Okay. First off, my weak immunity is a family LEGEND. Me not feeling so good in class and dozing off to wake up in the hospital with a pair of IVs in my arm was common enough that *I* could laugh about it. If we had TICKS, I would be PROPER fucked. Second, if we have fleas, either somebody's smuggled in a pet or we ALSO have rats, and at least not in my unit we don't. Not with the D-Con bait I put down. Third, I'M IN HOSPITALITY. We're trained to identify these things on sight. There is a (very graphic) graphic on a door that reminds us every time we get fresh linen. I'm a PRO. If I've told you what the bugs are, I'M PROBABLY RIGHT.

*replaces record needle*

"I was plenty close to the bugger. Pretty positive on what it was. Hey, if you want, I can get the corpse."

(That might sound like morbid humor, but this is actually how we do it. Two trained sets of eyes to double confirm, whether a live bug or dead. THEN YOU GET THE HELL OUT WITHOUT TOUCHING ANYTHING.)

"W-wont be necessary," she says.

"Had to kill him," I said. "Allergic."

It looked like a light went off in her head: this was why the constant hives that make me look like I've gone a couple rounds with Pacquiao.

"More to the point, if it's going to be a while, I need to know if I can get one of the couch kits. I'm getting bit up here and these are lively little fu—aaah, buggers."

I get a long look. "Normally that is a 'no,' but looking at you right now—WHAT YOU GOTTA DO. It could be a while."

I think next time I have to consider a sleeping setup, I'm getting a kotatsu table.
railenthe: (Default)

“?! You little shit.”

As I stand stock still in the pantry it’s confirmed—I am in fact not hearing things. A mouse has gotten in through the hole in the floor that the people in charge of this hole of a building refuse to fix.

(Of course, this on top of the black mold, the falling-in-bathroom walls, the leaky pipe, the decaying space under my kitchen sink that has been that way since I moved in…)

I moved the trap to the path of where the mouse has been going, but it seems to have wised up. (“You little shit.”) Now I’m about to clear out the pantry and put down a couple more glue traps.

On the upside, I’m on vacation until Friday.

railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)
Dear Landlord:

Because you've dragged your feet on the leak over my apartment, I've developed a case of what is either black mold or mildew on my ceiling. While I was willing to attack this with a can of Killz brand antimold/antimildew thingy on my own, the fact that the ceiling itself has developed a bulge in two places, and gives when poked in another, is something that is more in YOUR wheelhouse. HOWEVER. It's been almost half a year and you've done nothing. Which leads to this:

That's my bathroom wall. An extreme closeup albeit, but the wall. Specifically, one of the wall tiles. You see how the stuff that sticks it on has rotted? You know how my bath doesn't have a shower so it's impossible for anything to get there? Yannou, except for that wrapping-around bulging pouf of paint that clearly indicates the pattern of leakage from the unit over mine? Well, THE FUCKING TILES are falling off now.


Frankly, you're lucky anyone in this building pays rent, because this right here is some serious bull.
railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)
The good news is that I've gotten rid of the mouse that's been plaguing the apartment.

The bad news is that its corpse shows signs of having been scavenged upon by something larger.

I pop antiemetics like candies after discarding the trap and its contents, as my stomach has begun to disagree with me. The image of that...thing that used to be a mouse has hit me a bit more solidly than expected.

It's not the gore itself that bugs me, I don't think—it's the rapid cannibalism, the fact that it was the rich organ meat that was consumed and nothing else, like the mouse that's taking this one's place is one bad motherfucker that knows EXACTLY how to become the fittest...ribs splayed open like a warning sign. Like this is intentional or something.

...Somehow I always end up with the crazy mice. And I thought the parkour building scaler was a hard trap.
railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

And no, taxes are still AWOL.

If it wasn't for you guys right about now this would get uglier.

The transfer is still in the aether. But it covered these shenanigans.

This isn't the first time either.

…I'man boot up and kill random mobs. Angry thaumaturge is angry
And lunch, because my stomach is empty.
railenthe: (Default)

Pardon the formatting. I'm on my phone.

See this?

This is the hole that has been in my apartment for a little over a year. Today I got home to discover a small family of mice scuttling back out of here through it. They appear to be subsiding on the glue traps--the one I just pitched was fuzzy as fuck.

I've just replaced them with fresh ones, and put out bug baits on top of that. Now I'm looking for any kind of tape, because I am SICK of the building manager not repairing the hole despite my many times reporting that things can get in.
railenthe: (Phones)


On knees like mine, dragging a bunch of solid wood furniture and steel-frame furniture is…probably not the best of ideas. However, that wasn’t going to stop me any time soon: I’d lost track of my Fitbit clip somewhere in the apartment and it was going to bug me until I found it.

Which is why I was dragging and pivoting the bed—I thought it might have fallen back there at some point, and even if it hadn’t, it’s been a while since I cleaned under the bed.

“MOVE, dammit!”

Lift. Shove. Pivot. Squeeeeeze.

Eventually I managed to get it perpendicular to the sofa, which meant I could get at the outlet… and a veritable CAIRN of receipts—I do mean a cairn, too—I got underneath those things and started finding things I thought I’d lost a while back. As I shove them into their proper locations I decide “Well as long as it’s easy to get to I can make the bed before I put it back.


“Urrrrgh! MOVE, dammit!”

The wheelchair is NOT moving in the way I would have liked it to be moving. It’s blocking a chest of drawers AND the bed somehow, and I have to get that thing out of its old location because I will PROBABLY need to access it sometime soon depending on the verdict about my knee. But the thing isn’t moving. So I pick it up.

Remember when I mentioned moving the steel stuff being a bad idea? Yep. The thing takes ten minutes to move,and then it doesn’t even fit where I was planning on putting it? Frak.

See, this happens once in a while: my brain gets to me and I manage to somehow lose track of sense, and I have to reconfigure the apartment to make sure that I don’t go nuts. I’d just intended to find my clip, but then…


“Goes. Stays. Goes. Why do I still have this? Stays. Goes. Laundry. HEY, there’s the clip.”

I take a second to put my FitBit on properly and then RESUME dragging the bed. It is now a few inches to the right, and flush against the radiator. An outlet is no longer covered and creating a fire hazard. But now the COUCH is flush with my work chair and the table is…well. calling the space it’s left into ‘small’ would be an understatement. My knees are currently smushed into the tiniest of spaces as I type, actually. But there’s space now, right? Much better!



By this point, I’m more surprised that I’m not hungry again yet than at anything else. I’ve swept, picked up and discarded loads of stuff, swept again, picked up more stuff. MORE SWEEPING, and Oh look! Now I must move the giant tupperware bins of office supplies! FULL OF REAMS OF PAPER!

Drag. Drag. KICK. Drag—STOP

“Wait a minute.”

I open the second bin on a whim and find something I’d been looking for: my checks.


No more spending five bucks on a money order when I need to send money.

Bed’s made, bins are put up, wires are—well, the wires still need a little bit of help…but it’s done now. Bit late for a winter wrap-up, but that’s what we’ll call it.

Now I’m going to SLEEP. I’m exhausted now.

railenthe: (Default)
The other day, after finding out I had freelancing/social opportunities, I returned home to discover that the text of the inspection notices on the walls and most of our doors had been changed. It had gone from a standard “check for bugs, Schmoopie” inspection to a compliance inspection.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Someone must've got caught holding.” Getting caught holding basically means just that—they busted someone with an undeclared gun. Or illegal recreational drugs. That shit gets you evicted and triggers compliance inspections on everyone else.

A compliance inspection is basically a rather invasive inventory of a resident's unit, complete with photos, housekeeping drill, and a subtle check to see if they've broken the non-smoking agreement. It also covers a search for “undeclared residents,” supposed guests who appear to have moved in without a lease agreement.

That shit also gets you evicted.

I spent the day wondering if I had the stamina to get the place up to code, making sure to mention a need to get home while I still had the stamina to whip the joint into shape.


Stepping inside I realize there are only a few bad zones left. The plan: clean to the point of nausea, rest, repeat. Estrogen has done a number on my stamina, and the point of nausea comes rather fast.

Attacked first: top of the fridge. It's straightened...ish. Code, at any rate.

Bath: code when I left to freelance. (HIGH TECH VACUUMS ALARM ME.)

The kitchen workspace is rather alarming. It is being oxygen bleached and once bleached will become the work area for cleaning (rather, organizing the pantry—it's CLEAN, just cluttered).

Except we are beyond the point of nausea and to the point of incredible nausea.

...gotta keep going.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Default)

You know how you have one of those days, you know the one, where you just don’t give so much as half a fuck about what’s gotta be done or needs to be done, or you’d like to do and junk?

I’ve had one of those weeks.

And there’s only one thing to do when this happens… )

railenthe: (Noes)
I don't like bugs.

So this big-ass flying six-legged bastard gets into my apartment. And I'm out of bug spray.

So I get up and wield my broom like a blunt weapon and start smashing at it with the bristle end. I don't even realize I've begun kiaiing LOUDLY as I swing at the thing--if I hadn't I wouldn't have been able to get close to the thing.

I...REALLY don't like bugs.

Not fond of mice, either, but at least the mice don't bite...

I'm buying fogger next paycheck. Eeeew!

Also: Still no air conditioning.
railenthe: (*banghead von Karma*)
The outlet and my A/C are both totes fried. I'm not going to be able to stay in my apartment for any considerable length of time for...well, probably a considerable length of time. I'm going to have to put a bit of cleaning work in every day that I can to get the place looking decent enough that I don't want to bash my head in, but that's going to take a while as well.

I'm hunting a place to camp.

So yeah.

Sep. 3rd, 2012 06:55 pm
railenthe: (We're screwed.)

I’ve got a small problem with the apartment.

The wiring may be going.

Five separate times, I heard this “click-BAM” noise. Five separate times, I found that the circuit for the outlet for the air conditioner’s power had flipped.

…well, mostly flipped.

There is no air conditioner right now.

Kinda sucks.

I’m gonna get some cooling off done and then go back to redoing the décor. It’s….fucking hot.S

railenthe: (ticked)

So you know the hole in my wall? The one that's been there several weeks now and still hasn't been repaired?

Well, I was brushing my teeth and A FUCKING MOUSE came up through it.


I have a mouse in my apartment because Maintenance department won't do its fucking job and fix the hole it knocked in my wall.

…It's not even a healthy mouse. I outran it and managed to chase it back down THE OTHER HOLE IN MY APARTMENT (the gas line in the floor) and back out. (Seriously, it was a sickly little bastard.)

Tomorrow after work I'm moving furniture, bleaching the floor, putting down borax, and rearranging my shit. Then I'm putting down more glue traps.

So much for getting to sleep! I can't sleep after that! THERE'S A FUCKING MOUSE!


railenthe: (Golbez DGAF)
So I walk off the elevator and there's a fucking cockroach totally spawn-camping my door. It's so huge it can't just squeeze under the little rubber thing. I wave my arms at it and stomp around to try to scare it to my neighbor's door (yes, I know, I'm terrible). Once it's far enough away I open my door the tiniest crack and wedge myself through.

“Success!” I think as I close the door behind me. Except...I get the feeling I NEED to turn around...

And there the dirty little bastard is, about half a foot up my door.

I drop a few of my favorite expletives as I grab the broom. “Fuckflans, fucker. You're not getting in here.”

I stab my broom at it like a lance and knock it down. Opening the door I start doing some puck handling techniques until the thing is a clear shot and—

“You're outta here...”

I do a slapshot that would make TJ Oshie proud, and the thing goes flying off the ground into a wall—and I see something break off the damn thing.

It lands, and it starts actively fleeing the zone—and I chase it with a can of bug spray, soaking it down to the point where it DRIPS—and it's STILL ALIVE.

So now you know why I'm parked outside my door, holding a dagger and eating an açaí pop.

I can sit here all day, bug...

This message brought to you by LjBeetle. ^_^
railenthe: (Grr arg *stress'd*)
I keep hearing a ticking noise and colors won't calibrate—things I know to be blue are green and crap like that.

This is the part where you all go  )

This message brought to you by LjBeetle. ^_^

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