Can you hear me screaming?

We waited on Nick’s letter with the final accounting of the security deposit. Waited with breath baited. Waited in shivering anticipation. I picked up as a certified letter this morning.

Who knew? Maybe, just maybe a sliver of humanity would shine among the arguments and recriminations. Maybe given that the apartment was in plain, ordinary, non-professionally cleaned, non-new carpeted splendor when we took it would prod his conscience, and he would return our security deposit.

You know, we kind of took the place, because it wasn’t shiny and new. It was a bit homey and lived in looking. The cobwebbed fireplace he warned us not to use. The ducktape holding up a refrigerator shelf. It was endearing in that I have never lived among perfection and pristine.

In some unfamiliar terrain for me, I struck an optimistic string (not a chord mind you, don’t be stupid). I thought, maybe, he might, you never knew, take a few bucks or a hundred or so off the top, but return the rest.

Motherfucker, why did I have any faith?

HE’S BILLING US FOR $800 and change. BILLING US!

Fucking A. He wants us to pay for new carpeting, professional cleaning, all the shit we NEVER had.


In some vague place I waffled on my resolve to take him to court. But, now? There is no fucking way he gets one fucking dime more of our hard earned cash.

That name again folks — Nick Tsilipounidakis. A landlord unparalleled.

I won’t say anything libelous. But, if you ever Google that name and come across these words, welcome to my world.

Here’s the simple reality. We are a professional couple who were home quietly in the evening. But, most of the time, we were at work or eating out. We ate out more than in then any other apartment I’ve dwelled, because the stove was a broken down mess.

We had no pets, no babies, neither of us got sick, bled, peed, or shat on the carpeting. We did walk on it, because levitation is a bitch. And, hell, it wasn’t new when we got there. We threw caution to the wind.

As he invaded our privacy over the weeks once we had given our notice to vacate going through each room, while we were out, and commenting later, he told us both casually and specifically not to hire professional cleaners or do too much ourselves.

I agreed, because, can I say it again, it wasn’t professionally cleaned when we moved in and I’d be fucking goddamned if I would leave a rented apartment better when we left than when we started. Seriously, bite me on that concept.

We owe him nothing.

In my opinion, he is completely unqualified to rent a dog or doll house.

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Talk with me. Please.