The rental manager from the apartment building called this evening to inform me that she could no longer offer my friend and me the one-bedroom apartment we had our eyes on. Despite our handing in the paperwork yesterday afternoon, someone else had left an application in her mailbox the other evening. As she told me this, a wave of devastation crashed over me, and I felt like reaching into the phone and beating the living shit out of her.

Interestingly, every other person in that apartment's rental office refers to themselves by their first name, i.e. Heather or Juanita or Steve. This woman, however, insists that people call her Ms. Thomas. It got really weird when I called the office one afternoon and was asked if I'd rather speak to 'Heather, or Ms. Thomas.' What the fuck. Is she the fucking ringleader of an escort service or something? Argh.

Anyway, I'm really pissed off and depressed, and I have to spend all of tomorrow looking for another place to live. This is so fucking insane, I don't have time for this, and to my dismay, I must get back to copyediting shitty feature stories submitted by astonishingly untalented writers because I have the unfortunate job of 'Features Editor' of my school paper. IT NEVER FUCKING ENDS, DOES IT.