I 've spent the last week freaking out over the possibility that my [old-ish] apartment has asbestos drywall, which wouldn't be something to spazz about if there hadn't been some leaky pipes, with subsequent ginormous holes cut in my bathroom ceiling - for the second time in less than a year. And the people doing all the cutting? Are NOT dressed up in HAZMAT gear like they ought to, like I give a fuck about them, because this my goddam home we are talking about and they are tracking drywall shit all over my apartment. All over. Building management is way too laid-back about this, and the managers [read: custodian/rent collector] is amazingly unprofessional and just a dash of high-school bitchy; when told that I can see into an adjoining suite from my shower, and they can see me, Anonymous Fuckface Bitch's response? "Oh, nobody wants to look at YOU." Suck my dick, I thought, but lacked the balls to say.
I've spent the last day freaking out because it's confirmed, it IS asbestos drywall, and this is one post where I can't be funny or snarky or happy here.
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Run!!!! Run like the wind. Find another apartment, like, yesterday! This person doesn't give a damn about you. Even if the next place you find has asbestos, at least it's not broken up in your carpet until you vaccuum... SHIT! It's time to find that dream apartment where you can set up a little habachi in the back yard. Can't speak for Canada, but 'round here, people are renting whole houses for dirt these days... Yay recession! Woo hoo! U.S. rules!!
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