No roach bait make Leslie rail against humanity.

When I got home yesterday, I noticed that the stairwell and landings of my building had been festooned with no less than 13 new hotel-like art prints.  That’s in addition to the two pieces we already had that are actually cool.  It’s a three story building, how much freaking art do we need?

Anyway, here’s the thing: I don’t have anything against an endeavour to beautify my building, exactly, but you know what I need more than bad art in the stairwells?  Some motherf*cking roach bait!!!

SERIOUSLY.  Despite the “Superintenant’s” seemingly responsive … er, response, an application of roach bait has yet to be applied to my apartment.  In fact, I haven’t even heard if it’s being considered or ruled out, or anything.  I know that I’m a product of my workplace and all, and I tend to expect things to be done at the snap of my fingers because that’s how we do it there (in fact, if you could somehow magically get it to me before I snap my fingers, that would be preferable), so I’ve tried to be patient.  But it has been a week since I killed the cockroach.  A week!

Things I have mistaken for roaches in the course of the last week:

  • rolling clump of cat hair
  • nick in baseboard paint (note: I have also mistaken said nick for a clothing moth on more than one occasion)
  • oblong discolouration in hardwood floor that’s probably been there for fifty years
  • piece of walnut I dropped one morning while I was making my oatmeal, then couldn’t find only to have it jump out at me in roach-y fashion later that evening
  • stray bit of cat kibble that somehow migrated into the living room.

What I have actually not seen is another roach.  Soooo maybe I’ll just take it down a notch.  I’ll take it down a notch while continuing to scan rooms for movement before entering them.

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