Rug rage 

The day I moved out of my apartment in Atlanta, my other two roommates had already gone. I sat among boxes with Keslie & her girlfriend, Haley, waiting for jerry to arrive in the truck.  At some point, I realized my rug was missing from the living room. I knew the younger roommate took it. I was already pissed about her cat being a major fucking nussance (peeing/pooping on all things stationary). 

This is a shameful moment. I hate these.

I called her at least 5 times. No answer. I left a voicemail in a tone my father speaks in; he sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. It’s a cordial tone mixed with a seriousness that let’s the receiver know he wants them dead. The tone is most likely the sound of quelled fury (since it’s socially unacceptable to go ape-shit).

I told her I wanted my rug in this apartment today–that I wasn’t paying rent until I had it. 

It didn’t sound that angry, but I’m ashamed of the rage that I felt. When I hung up, I’m sure I was “bleepity-blabbity fuck her, fuckwitted bitchass!” And I’m sure Haley felt put-off watching my rug tantrum. Wouldn’t you? 

Roommate apologized about said rug. She thought it was up for grabs by a roommate who had already left. I recently threw away the rug because it smelled like piss. 

I’m an ass. The end. 

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