(no subject)

Her mount leaped forward as though stung, charging into the knot of lumbering behemoths. Whether by chance or inspired lunacy, she careened through the snorting, bellowing gargantuans, weaving drunkenly through the milling mass, at times vanishing from view in the inky fog of the early morning hours. And when all appeared lost, rider and mount burst through the far side of the throng, coughing up the foul-smelling mists belched forth by the gigantic packbeasts, accelerating away into the clear terrain ahead, bound for home as if the hounds of Hell itself snapped at her heels...

In other words, I just got back from taking Megan to work, off in the murky depths of Jessup. At this time of day, it becomes apparent why the area is alternatively called 'Semi City', or less kindly but FAR more accurately 'Semi Truck Cluster Fsck'. *rubs at her temples* Dropping Megan off at work involves playing chicken with entirely too many of those trucks, weaving through an industrial complex that includes a security gate and two railroad crossings, until finally dropping her at an unmarked starewell at the back of a warehouse.

If I didn't know it was a fresh produce outfit, I'd be wondering if she was the dealer at a clandestine mob-sponsored gambling hall. *stares blearily at the screen* I've had no sleep. I'm also praying I can remember how to get BACK there to pick her up after my therapy sessions. I suspect she'd be quite pissed off if I get lost, and justly so... so everyone cross your fingers and pray that the aging limo driver circuits still work. I'm going to crawl into bed now... I can maybe get a couple hours before I have to mount up again...

WARNING: Seriously Pissed The Fisk Off Cabbit Ahead

GreenTree finally deigned to get back to us today.

Our credit rating is FIVE GOD D@MNED POINTS TOO LOW.

Raging cabbit. It's probably a good thing that I sold off the last of my guns in early 2001... though I'm not sure if I'd shoot the GreenTree folk for rejecting us for five fisking points, Megan for being a whiney, mopey little bitch, or myself so I don't have to FISKING LISTEN TO HER.

Digging back into apartment listings. This isn't going to be pretty, but we -have- to get out of this house. It's a palpable weight on me, and I can -feel- it bending me over.

Probably to throw sand up my arse and then ram it home.

This is mostly a warning to my normal chatter folk tonight: I'm in a foul, furious mood. Nothing personal, folks, but I have to get out of this house before I descend the rest of the way into madness. Consider me Idle/AFK/Out of my Mind/Whatever.

~e-chan

(no subject)

Alright, a less hostile post, now that I've got a better lock down on the rage.

Here's the gist of the situation:

• We have to get out of this house. It's quite literally killing me; between outright hostility, rapidly disintegrating conditions, and mold... I'm dying in pieces, here.
• We'd gone through apartment listings, and found -one- that had the things we needed: dishwasher and in-unit washer & dryer. That one was GreenTree.
• We went over, talked with the leasing rep, filled out the paperwork. She assured us that the full two month deposit was the worst that would happened, and thus comforted we looked over one of the units. It was, literally, everything we could have hoped for.
• Today, we were informed that our applications had been rejected. Our credit report was five points under what they considered a 'good threshold'. Megan was the one that took that call; I was tied up in therapy.
• When I picked up Megan, she brought with her a huge cloud of 'why is this happening to me' mopeyness, and resorted to what's become standard for her: constantly haranguing me for reassurement.
• I don't mean to be selfish about this, but I've got MORE than I can handle keeping myself on track; with her gloom tossed on me in addition to the frustration at having the apartment yanked from under us, I overloaded. The result is my earlier post. Instead of the quiet frustration that's generally been my response to her refusal to stand on her own d@mned feet... this time it unlocked the Pandora's box of my temper.
• Most of the rage is locked back down again; it's amazing how cathartic Rammstein can be. There's just nothing like an angry sounding rant about hate, in German, to vent some pressure. I've got the most recent copy of the ASG at my elbow, and a couple websites to poke over... in the hopes that I can locate something half as suitable as GreenTree was.
• The kicker to all of this? Why, GreenTree will happily let us in.... provided we get some other innocent schmuck to co-sign on the lease. After fighting the losing battle to keep this house upright for four years, I've damn near tapped out the charity of a sizeable number of folks; they'd have to be out of their fisking minds to agree to co-sign, and I'd recommend immediate psychotherapy to anyone that offered. Which leaves us ... with no place to go.

Yet. I will get out of this house. There is a way. I don't know what it is, yet, but something will come up.

I just hope the 'solution' doesn't involve holding up a 7-Eleven with a plastic sparkler pistol toy.