Diaries of a Femcel: My Landlord's Tithes Are Getting Out of Hand

Here we go again. 

My new apartment sucks. I thought it would be better than living in the dorms, but honestly, I'm not so sure anymore. Don't get me wrong, my dorm was pretty bad. It had black mold growing in the shower. One time I walked in on my roommate feeding it an agar gel solution. She insisted that it was "her friend" and that it "needs her.” Maybe it was for an organic chemistry assignment or sourdough starter or something.

My new place has mold too. It also has a burst pipe, a living room flooded with a foot of water, and a fire alarm that broke yesterday. Every thirty seconds it would chirp, and then a hot lady voice would say "battery low." We ripped through three packs of 9-volts before I got my roommate's boyfriend Craig to look at the label on the back. Turns out this thing was installed in 1986 at the height of the avian flu epidemic. I don't know what that has to do with it, but it's the only info the AI overview told me when I Googled how long fire alarms are supposed to last.

Speaking of AI, I've never met my landlord. I know his name is Stephen from the lease contract, but the tours, email, and online portal are entirely managed by an AI chatbot named Stephen+. I tried to report the burst pipe, but Stephen+ told me to "figure something out – you've totally got this. This isn’t just problem-solving; this is redefining what it means to think." The one thing I need less than a swimming pool in my living room is an AI landlord trying to fuck. Just like I would with a human landlord, I flirted back to see if I could convince it to report the issue, but the system locked me out. 

I'd do anything to never hear that stupid sexy smoke alarm voice again, even though I'm usually a fan of robot ladies ordering me around. Sometimes I deliberately drain my headphones' battery just to hear that silky British bird telling me "recharge headset." I like it when a woman tells me what to do. But not this time. Seriously, that beeping almost drove me mad. See, I'm only 5'4", and we still don't own any furniture to stand on. At the time, the only other person home was Craig and he refused to take it down because he didn't want to "deplatform women's voices."

I tried everything: I used earplugs, and when those fell out I held pillows over my ears, and when that wasn't enough I blasted TOOL through my headphones. I figured the beeping would blend in, and it did, but the god-awful music just drove me more insane.

Eventually, I figured out a solution. I stacked Kontakte editions seven through nine (my German class requires a new edition every year) and on top of those a few textbooks about HIPAA compliance that some pre-med left on the floor of my apartment complex. I guess they thought the books were unimportant enough to use as a doorstop. That, or AI has rendered the subject useless.

I climbed that stack of books, reached up, and unscrewed the damn machine. Just as it popped free from its socket, Stephen Minus himself burst through my apartment door fully decked out in waders and a snorkel. At least, I guess it was Stephen, because he proceeded to slosh over and hand me an eviction notice, as well as an $200 invoice for "tampering with the smoke detection system." 

Now here I am in my living room, with an antique fire alarm and fifty 9-volts, writing this article on a floating laptop. 

I'm really gonna miss this place.