Came home today, found a note sticky-taped to our apartment door.
“Please be advised that the Dumpmaster is for Serviced Apartments rubbish only. Thankyou.”
My first thought was a panicked, ‘Ohmigod my snotty ex-housemate has somehow found out where I live and is running around posting obnoxious notes on my doors again!’
Then I read it properly and thought, ‘What in the fuck is a Dumpmaster?’
After some time (and it took me entirely too long to come to this conclusion) I realised that the note was left by the cleaning or reception staff of the short-term stay apartments (the building of which we share however some apartments are privately owned/rented out) and that they might be referring to a dumpster/skip which alternates between our two parking lots. On top of that, either they believe residents have been misusing the skip and went around informing everybody, or they’ve narrowed it down to US and stuck a note on our door. I’ve never heard of this ‘Dumpmaster’ (sounds like bad slang for a toilet anyway) but it’s possible that they are right, and saw my sister dumping stuff in their skip or whatever. Who knows?
All I know is that notes like this really, really – and I mean fucking REALLY – rub me the wrong way. So passive-aggressive and my ex-housemate-like. They make me want to find the faceless composer, pin them to the ground in an aikido hold and force-feed them said note.
I’ve never been too fond of those beeyatches from the reception area anyway so maybe I’m over-reacting a little. And I better get my facts straight before I retaliate with a note of my own (“Please be advised that we do not use your ‘Dumpmaster’ and that our door is not a public message-board.”) so I’m trying to get a hold of my sis, who as usual has her phone off.
Actually I’ll be the adult and confront them personally tomorrow. Really don’t appreciate notes sticky-taped on my door like some college notice - WE HAVE A BLOODY LETTERBOX IDIOTS. Rude.
Oh by the way, once I figured out the mysterious note and stepped inside, I found my kitchen covered in ants.
Then I looked around and found my lounge room covered in ants.
Turns out ants can indeed get to a second-floor apartment and that they were crawling in via the balcony door gap and following their sense of smell to the jelly crystals and un-rinsed cocktail glass in my kitchen. My kitchen wasn’t even dirty, yo. Must be the weather driving them out of control, like with cockroaches this time of year. Or maybe that immature note-writer planted them. Bug warfare!
I hate it when ants suddenly go on these berserk little in-your-house sprees! Wish I could find their anthill and find ants from another anthill and pit them against each other so that each colony takes each other out. (I used to do that when I was a kid.) Instead I just cleaned the house top to bottom, sprayed Mortein everywhere and am hoping the extra hot weather forecast for tomorrow will kill them before they get to this altitude.
This is actually kind of funny, because one of the bratty notes my ex-housemate left for me and my sister on the fridge once was a classic: “There is sugar all over the floor. Please clean it up otherwise ants will come.”
Holy crap it really is my housemate haunting me.