Warning:

Unthoughtout, unplanned rant follows.

We already know that realtors suck devilish [and devilish amounts of] cock. That's just who they are as scum sucking purveyors of evil and all badness. One accepts that because, well, one must. Sometimes though, they just go that bit too far in the pissing you off stakes. Guess what? Yah. Today was my day.
A couple of weeks back I had an inspection. Everything all fine and froody. I thought it went, if not well, then moderately okay. The inspectress looked down her nose at my humble abode and my humbler living arrangements. I can handle that. My genes have not been spliced with shark and I am descended from a Khan by the name of, oh say, Ghengis so I, quite naturally, do not have her kill and conquer ambitions in life. Nor do I have her inch thick make up but that could be another story. Actually, come to think of it, and judging by the hefty wafts of it, she probably pays as much per week in spak filler, make-up, and perfume as I do rent. Payment - ah - and this is where I'm fuming. Believe me, this is Sydney, this is the inner west, I pay more than enough rent. If I were giving the money to a third world country and living on the streets instead I could probably have them out of debt in about 30-35yrs at current rates. Don't let the humour fool you. I am positively furious because, of course, after the good-going, no structural-or-other damage that is my flat, they had to go and put my rent up. Naturally. That's what you do with a good tenant. You fuck with them in case they grow roots and STAY. Twenty fucking dollars a week. Are you fucking with me? Last tenant lived here two years and never had a hike. They put it up ten bucks fore I move in, I've been here nine months and they hike me TWENTY FUCKING DOLLARS. Oh seriously. For what? Hmmmmmmmmmmm lets see. Carpet is older than I am, place hasn't been painted in at least a decade an the last time it was painted someone pulled a bodgy. Yah. I can see why they'd think I'd wanna be stung and extra twenty a week.
Here's the bit that has me really fucking fuming - the rest has been mere build-up, scene painting, call it what you will...
You know I'm probably going to pay it. My options stink.
Option one - move. There are two parts to option one. I could find another, cheaper, smaller, crappier place [yeah yeah I'll admit that this place was something of a steal - which still isn't saying much]. Option two of option one - housemates. Keep in mind that the whole thought of moving [again] has me gagging. Housemates - oh god, housemates. I disdain the mere idea. I adore living alone. I've actually reached that point in life [and I have quite the short fuse]where I cannot stand living with other people. Their bullshit [and mine to them] is enough to make me want to see how my brain would look as a wall decoration. Call it art if you will, I will, it's called art. I'm sick of the having-to-have-you-as-a-best-friend, partner-lover-stand in until the real thing comes along, the needing a parent, needing advice at ungodly hours, the what's yours in mine and what's mine is mine too crap, the cook because no one else can, the advice giver, the hush hush I'm a poor sleeper [hey, you're nearly thirty - FUCKING WORK IT OUT GROW UP AND STOP BLAMING EVERYONE ELSE FOR YOUR BULLSHIT SHIT], the crap about housework and cleaning, and the cleaning not being done until I start it, or not being done until the bitch is in a bitch cleaning mood and chooses cleaning as a totally non-feminist [gods, did I swear?] passive-aggressive way of making a point [I'm a slob, I admit it - get the fuck over it], cheapness [especially as regards cleaning - is it so wrong to hire a cleaner? seriously? is it a social issue to you? no. it's not even a financial one - IT'S A PETTY BULLSHIT ONE], the inability to have so much as milk in the house, to buy fucking milk, and then there's the prying poking here's what I think of your life, oh I've psychoanalysed you crap that is endless - and I haven't even mentioned when share living going horribly wrong [rent? pay rent? but I am above such things] [testicles? testicles? Oh but now they are fifty fucking meters from your body].
Option two merely involves me bending over and presenting the target. Oh, and handing over the cash, of course.
Can't imagine why I'm not best pleased with the prospect.

[inarticulate sounds of rage]