Awkward.

As it is the hottest week of summer, my AC decided to permanently stop working. This has resulted in a lot of forced landlord interaction. As you may remember from previous posts my landlord creeps me out big time. But, the feelings are becoming mutual. Yesterday he confronted me about the blood.

What’s the blood you ask.

It all goes back to the fourth of July. After throwing the best party of all time, I made Chad lead everyone to a bar so I could clean up the destroyed remnants of my apartment. Fast forward twenty minutes and 14 more jello shots later, my baby blackout transitioned to full blown blackout. Apparently, Chad walked into our back gate to: me, crying while sweeping, with camouflage style blood and firework sulfur streaks all over my face surrounded by murder footprint pools covering the majority of the property.

I stepped on a broken beer bottle, most likely the one Maggie D threw at John’s head before ghosting, and remedied it with some bandaids, which lasted about 3 minutes before I bled through my chucks and became irrationally stubborn. Just kept right on cleaning, up and down the stairs, in the alley, in the garage, all over our apartment. At some point, in my helpless state I decided crying would probably help. When Chad walked in he asked me if I was okay and then busted out laughing. I declared him an uncaring asshole and he asked if I was pretending to be Rambo, so I left him to clean up, which he did giggling his ass of all the while. He is convinced if I disappear he will get locked away for life unless we bleachify the traces soon; someone’s been watching too many episodes of Dexter I think.

This is why I love him. Not many people would bust out a mop and go to town cleaning up the blood of their passed out asshole girlfriend who threw a gigantic party without really asking and have a sense of humor about it. One thing he did not have, however, was a sense of perfectionism. He half-assed it, so the next morning I went to town scrubbing the asphalt.

My landlord came over minutes after I finished to “mow the lawn.” Translate: see if he needed to evict me after the newbie in apt 3 ratted me out. Yes, I thought, I am triumphant! I got away with it.

We did not get away with it.

We both missed the laundry room, which is next to my neighbor’s door in the garden apartment, where the lawnmower is kept. I noticed the next day and cleaned it all up, knowing full well that he saw them. I could maybe have passed it off as my neighbor’s mess, except he was out of town. And, has no legs. (Too far? Too soon?)

Landlord mentioned it briefly. I just shrugged.

This got me thinking about the other landlord I had that once yelled at me for bleeding all over the stairs the night Quinne lived her 21st birthday vicariously through me. I stepped on a broken flower pot barefoot (a night of dancing in heels) on the walk home from the artful dodger and left a pink panther trail of bloody foot prints to our stairs where I proceeded to get in a wrestling match with Cole at the top of my lungs. “Kimberly, this behavior is just outrageous.” To which I responded, “Fuck you Alan. Don’t call me Kimberly.” before running into Quinne’s room and puking. Then I ran into my room and puked. Then I screamed at Cooper and Cole for trying to give me water and kicked them out of my room onto the back porch, locking them in my backyard for the night. The next night Alan asked why we were running a sorority house; I just shrugged. Old habits die hard I guess.

The moral of this story is don’t let me drink gin. Or at least don’t let me do it barefoot. Or at least not at a place that I'm renting.