I HATE PETER IN MY BUILDING

I HATE PETER IN MY BUILDING

I hate you, Peter. I hate you because you don't pick up your phone
when I call. And I know it's your cell phone, so it's probably snug
in it's holster, clipped to your belt when you're sitting at your desk
at the printing company you work nights at. I hate you because you're
probably staring at my number when I call, and instead of facing
reality, you opt to go back to YouTube clips and stale office snacks.

All I want, Peter, is for you to get the cockroaches out of my
apartment. It's your job, as "apartment manager," (which, by the way,
I regard a ridiculous title) to comply with the requests of tenants -
as long as they are within reason. Wanting an exterminator to
fumigate my pest-infested box of an apartment is within reason. I
offered to call one on my own, but you insisted upon doing it
yourself.

And don't come knocking on my door, Peter, to scold me as though you
are some sort of mentor I've had over the years when I go above you to
our landlord, Peter Sr. You weren't "managing" your building, so I
took matters into my own hands.

And another thing, Peter? I hate that fucking white baseball cap you
wear all day, every day. What are you hiding under there? I know
it's not a brain, but perhaps it's the secret to making yourself scare
when convenient. I'd like a piece of that secret, because maybe I'll
apply it when it's time to pay rent. You -- yes you, Peter -- are an
asshole!

-Heated in Hollywood