Another brawl with my landlady

I don’t know whether I should address her as landlady or slum-lady! Just because she owns the house I reside in doesn’t mean she owns me too. She assumes she is the reason my heart beats and is therefore the provider of the air that I breathe!

I don’t know whether I should address her as landlady or slum-lady! Just because she owns the house I reside in doesn’t mean she owns me too. She assumes she is the reason my heart beats and is therefore the provider of the air that I breathe!

Over the weekend, I don’t know whether it was out of boredom or she simply wanted to practice her new torture techniques, I met her annoying face when I answered the door. My sudden change of facial expression hinted that she was unwelcome.

I don’t know about you, but all the landlords and ladies I’ve known assume tenants are walking cash machines! Though the urge to slam the door in her face was mighty strong, I found myself welcoming her inside. I didn’t see the reason for the visit as I had paid her two months in advance. Anyway, she first scanned the room with her ghetto eyes as if she was some kind of detective looking for evidence.

After settling, she found me looking at her like a quarrelsome wife looking at her husband who came home after midnight.

“How can I help you?” I asked in an icy tone. “Well,” she said shifting in her seat, “I hear that you play loud music in here and your neighbors fail to sleep at night.” I looked hard at her and told her, “I hate music. I don’t own a radio or any musical instrument.”

“But why do you hate me so much?” she finally asked, realising it was time to get to the point. “Is that what you have heard? I asked standing at the door indicating that it was time for her to leave. She didn’t move an inch even after telling her I had an appointment. This only made me angrier; I decided to lash at her. “Do you guys go to some hospital where they scoop your hearts out with table spoons and replace them with stones before sending you off to some academy where they train you to torture your tenants?” “Why do you treat us like we are some kind of aliens that invaded your planet and you are forced to accommodate us against your will?  Why is invading our privacy and minding our business so important to you? Why does ‘our’ money taste so good that you feel like chopping some days off the calendar so that the end of the month comes around the 20th? Why do…”

“Stop,” she shouted in a shaky voice. “Please stop! I need to go now.” And she left without another word. It felt so good to get that off my chest. But now I’m worried I’m going to be evicted.

 

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