Those Wood Eating Bastards

Termites.  Motherfucking termites.  In the ceiling.  In the floor.  In the fucking couch.  Piles of sawdust on the floor and termite poop on my books.  Termite poop!

Listen, I know that this apartment complex we live in is not four-star living.  It’s a place in which we live right now.  And if we were staying in Southern California for much longer we most certainly would not still be here.  But it’s cheap.  So even though the paint is peeling on our door and the steps leading up to said door look like they might any day collapse, it’s fine.

What’s not fine?  Termites.  Termites are not fucking fine.  Termites living in a couch I’ve been sitting on are most certainly not okay.

Luckily Wes found them before they did too much damage (hopefully) to our furniture.  One couch that has been through so much already is the only thing we can tell that has been playing host to those little wood eating bastards.  What does property management do?  Spray some fucking poison and then caulk the holes, as if that’s going to end the onslaught of termites.  Did I mention they were in the ceiling and in the floor?  Yes, I don’t think that some pesticide and a shot of caulk is going to end this.  Who knows how many are lurking in the walls just waiting to take a bite of our Pottery Barn coffee table?

So yes, I’m so pissed.  So pissed that a property management could care so little about its tenants.  I’m sure this isn’t the first time they’ve heard about termites.  Just as I’m sure that peeling off paint and letting it blow away is a pollutant, but whatever, they do it anyway.

I’m looking forward to the day we move.  And then I’m looking forward to the day Wes gets his security deposit back.  And then I’m going to write one hell of a review on Yelp.  Now I understand why there was a guy setting up shop outside the leasing office telling people not to live here.  If he comes back I may be inclined to join him.

While we wait for the pest control company to come out (which Wes had to ask for after the maintenance manager took a quick look and decided, “Yeah.  No, that should take care of it.  We don’t need pest control.”) our living room is upended.  The couch taken apart, legs of it on the floor soaking in pesticide (which we’re quite certain can’t be good for the wood) and we’re searching the entire place for more sawdust and termite poop.  We’re also trying to figure out what to do with our couch?  Are there more termites hiding out in there?  Will we sit on it one day and have it just fall apart?  Will the property management do anything other than send a well-meaning but ultimately useless maintenance guy to appease us?

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Filed under Beach Living, You have got to be fucking kidding me

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