The bedroom was flooded.

Apparently, there was some blockage in the bathroom pipes. Again.

And it backed up into the bedroom pipes. Again.

It was able to do this, despite the fact that the old heating unit was replaced with a new self-contained radiator, because the idiot plumbers had left the pipe just sticking out of the wall. Not covered. Not blocked or rerouted or turned off. They didn't do a damn thing to it, just left it there, just waiting to spew dirty water all over the floor of my bedroom.

I am not happy.

This isn't funny anymore.

Not that it ever was funny, except in the way that you know that you can make a good story about it. Guess what idiotic thing the bastard plumbers have done now?

Well, I'm tired of it. And it looks like I'm trapped in plumbing hell, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it except pray to move.

I have never, never lived in an apartment as screwed up as this one. I lived in some real hovels when I was in college, but nothing to hold a candle to this place. Hell, I lived in Istanbul for a year and a half. I once spent three days without water because the main water main exploded. Every day, the electricity would go off for an hour or more, and you got used to it.

Nothing at all compared to the incompetence of this place. Nothing.

So yesterday, I spent hours cleaning the bedroom. Dragging out my water-logged carpet from where I store it under the bed (breaking a nail in the process), and draped it over the balcony and prayed it wouldn't rain. Next, the investment papers. The shoes. My tarot card collection, half of which is now ruined and I had to throw out. I put it back under there after the close call of last time because I figured it was safe because they'd fixed the problem.

Guess the plumbers aren't the only idiots around here, eh?

Landlady said someone would be around to take care of the problem at 4:30.

Middle Bastard Plumber showed up at 5:30. He poured acid down the sink and told me not to flush it out for at least two hours. He slapped some cement in the open pipe in the bedroom. Very nice.

Then he left. Called Landlady, apparently, and told her that if she didn't have a call within an hour, everything was sorted.

This, after telling me not to touch it for at least two hours.

Nice.

So I mopped up again, after the plumbers had left the place full of muddy footprints and globs of cement. Oh, and they dribbled acid on the bathroom floor, which has got to be nice for the expensive ceramic tiles.

Oh well, they plan to smash those up and take up the floor anyway, just as soon as I'm out of here.

And of course it's not fixed. I've got a bidet and sink full of brown smelly crap, and it's not draining, and I had to go to the PWA dinner. Which was very nice, but I just wasn't in the mood, ya know?

So I called Landlady this morning, first thing. Left a message, since her phone was turned off and she's apparently out of the country.

Called her again at 11:30 because I hadn't heard from her and I'm just sick of this whole mess.

"What, there is a problem?"

Duh.

So she calls the Bastard, and he tells her it's my fault and I must be throwing things down the sink, like maybe catfood or something.

Wrong-O.

Catfood?!? Is it just me, or are they really stretching here?

So here I sit, vacillating between abject depression and incendiary rage.

Waiting on the plumbers.

Again.

I was supposed to go to yoga tonight, but that of course had to be cancelled, which is a shame because I could really use some peace and tranquility about now.

Some part of me keeps thinking that this isn't really happening, that it's some sort of post-plumber traumatic stress disorder causing amazingly realistic nightmares.

But it's not. It's real.

Too real.