I moved, again. In the last two years I have done a considerable amount of lateral shifts in terms of living accommodations, but I have finally made a long overdue social leap forward. My new apartment is a penthouse at Prince Charles Terrace. Breathe it in. I am.
The new place is swell. You need a special key to use the elevator to get up to ‘My Level’, which adds a sense of elitism I am unaccustomed to but quickly growing fond of. There are two decks; both of which are bigger than my first apartment. And my room came with a sword, which, based on my penthouse experience, is a penthouse tradition.
This blessing has been taken from the bosom of craigslist, and isn’t she just a bountiful bitch. If craigslist isn’t kissing, even gently, every part of your life then you’re doing something wrong.
This blog isn’t about my awesome apartment – and awesome it is, it’s about the f@#$ing parking ticket I got my first night in the underground parking.
Underground parking is supposed to be a safe haven for cars, free from bird shit and tickets, where subterranean differences are handled in private without involving the law man, much like Fight Club. After parking in the wrong spot for only a few hours I was left with this note along with one city of Toronto parking ticket.
I can endure the parking ticket. Last year alone I collected over $700 worth of these yellow book marks, most of which I fought like Robin Hood, except I have no merry men, nor am I merry and I give nothing back to the people – except this blog, which could be argued is more of a burden on the internet than anything. But what I can’t bare is this asshole leaving a passive aggressive note on my car so riddled with poor penmanship.
WARNING is spelt with two n’s not two m’s. In fact every n in the letter looks like an m. So either this person has terrible handwriting; is an idiot (I wager on this); or has a bizarre speech impediment and spells everything phonetically. If I hadn’t just bought the car I would sell it, or at the very least replace the windshield that has been soiled with this love letter.
Go back and read the note, please. Get angry. I would retype every line and follow it up with a long list of expletives, but I have to go to work soon and I’m willing to wager you don’t want or need to read that.
What does a man do when he has been wronged? It used to be you would shout from the highest bell tower. Name and shame. Bell towers being in short supply this option isn’t practical, instead I will scream from the largest metaphorical tower in the land, the internet.
F@#$ you guy who parks beside me. I hope when you do your taxes this year you get audited.
PS. I finally saw the car owned by the man responsible to this affront. It is a suped up Volkswagen with level 9 douchebag window tinting. I predict that he owns the box set collectors edition of all the Fast and Furious movies. If that isn’t justice I don’t know what is.