Roommate and I received a letter in the mail yesterday from our landlady. I could hardly contain my excitement, but I allowed myself a moment to breathlessly ponder what might be inside:

1. A thank-you note for our Valentine's Day card.
2. A thank-you note for our always providing rent on time.
3. A thank-you note for our simply being outstanding tenants overall.
4. A golden ticket.

Clearly, the possibilities were - or, at least, seemed to be - endless.

I told Roommate to crack the seal, since I was too hysterical to handle the suspense. I've never in my life experience true love, but... could this be it?

Roommate took one look at the letter, and, like lead paint from our walls, tears peeled down her face, forming a hazardous (slippery, as opposed to toxic) pool on a bare portion (No area rug! You reading this, you old bitch?) of our wood floors.

"How could she do this to us?" Roommate said between sobs. I snatched the letter from her hands and saw for myself what all the heartache was about.

The rent. An increase of $47. Effective May 1, 2006.

And just like that, it became crystal clear to me just where my landlady's priorities lie, and why her middle name is "Dollar Bill," and why the laundry room closes at 9:30 p.m. She is a cold, selfish woman. She is also 300 years old, but that is no excuse for treating her children tenants like the handicapped people against whom she so passively discriminates. Still, no one can stop her - not even the U.S. Supreme Court, as Roommate and I both know. She's no better than the ramp that rests beside the back entrance - initially enticing, but ultimately two-faced in its treachery.