Infamous dead lightbulb
The lightbulb in my 12-foot vaulted ceiling died. No, I don’t own a ladder. Here is the conversation that ensued with the fratty hayseed in the leasing office.
Me: So, the lightbulb in my vaulted ceiling went out the other day and it’s pretty dark in my place.
Cousin Jeb: And you can’t reach it?
Me: Right… It’s a vaulted ceiling.
Cousin Jeb: Maintenance don’t get here til Monday, so you can try do it yourself.
Me: I don’t even know what wattage to replace it with, if I could reach it.
Jeb: It should be printed on the front of the lightbulb in those tiny letters.
Me: … It’s in the 12-foot vaulted ceiling.
Jeb: I don’t know how high up that is!
Me: Alright… *walk out of the office*
It’s still pretty dark in here.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my apartment. I’m up in an oversized(/priced) one bedroom on the third floor facing the forest (oooh la la).
My apartment complex office is full of idiots. About three weeks after I moved in (September), the water main in my building exploded, destroying the two apartments below mine. (-10 points). So they begin a plumbing project that requires plumbers to stomp in and out of my apartment for four god damn days while poor Scout (the epileptic guard dog that licks any and all intruders) has to ride around in the Mini Cooper so they can drill holes in my wall.
There is STILL a whole in my wall.