Dear Real Estate Agent Who Has Been Charged With Selling The House In Which I've Lived For The Last Two Years (And Who Is A Man),
I would like for you to know that I own a set of days of the week knickers. I'm not telling you this piece of information to excite you; rather, I feel you need to realize that this means I will automatically know if a pair has gone missing from my underwear drawer. It's just mathematics. So the next time you decide to let yourself into my apartment in the middle of the day when I'm at work WITHOUT LETTING ME KNOW that you'll be doing so, I'll have the police knocking on your front door the minute I can't find the Freaky Fridays.
Also, here's a tip. Actually, here's two. If you're going to come into my apartment in the middle of the day without asking my permission first---even though we talked extensively that morning about the landlord selling the house, and you never mentioned the fact that you'd be coming into my apartment in the middle of the day without asking my permission first---maybe you'd like to think twice about sticking your business card and a magnetic notepad emblazoned with your name and picture onto my refrigerator while you're there. Because those things weren't stuck onto the refrigerator when I left the house in the morning. And if they're stuck onto the refrigerator when I get home from work in the evening, I'm going to have a few questions about where they came from. And guess who I'm going to call? Why, I'm probably going to call the person whose face is all over the business card and magnetic notepad that are now mysteriously stuck onto my refrigerator. Dude, it's called evidence. If you want to be sneaking into people's houses while they're at work without telling them, MAYBE DON'T LEAVE ANY.
(Also, when I call you and ask you why you were in my apartment in the middle of the day without first asking my permission? Don't say "well, I was only in there five minutes!" And especially? Don't say "Come on, I just needed to take some pictures!")
And here's a thought: while you're not doing things for me, maybe you could also not lock me out next time---YES, LOCK ME OUT OF MY OWN HOUSE!---so that when I get home from a hard day's work, I have to balance a six-foot ladder on the rickety porch steps at the back of the house, hoist myself onto the very top step of the ladder---you know, the one that says "Danger! Don't Use As A Step!"---then climb onto my window ledge and balance precariously three stories off the ground, while simultaneously trying to push the screen up and hold the cats back, so that I can then wiggle head-first into my kitchen, landing on the floor on my hands and knees. WHILE WEARING A SKIRT AND HEELS. Also, maybe you could now apologize to my mother for sending her into cardiac arrest.
Thank you. I'd appreciate it, you know? It's just the little things like that which will make this whole transition smoother, I think. Also, when you've got a second, we totally need to discuss your aftershave---as in "toning down the application of." But I guess I can wait on that one. You've got enough to think about today.
P.S.: You totally spelled your name wrong on the garish red "FOR SALE" sign outside the house. Good thing I had one of those magnetic notepads on my fridge so that I noticed the mistake, right?
P.P.S: Want to buy an ad on my site?