Check Out

Tenancy endeth. I’m nearly ready for my check out inspection; the occassion where some clipboarded cunt will traverse your soon-to-be-vacated home, poking their nose into every nook and cranny while shaking their head at their scribbled notes. You follow them around, meekly bleating ‘Oh, it was like that when we moved in’. But every time they stumble upon a cigarette-burned patch of carpet or a dilapidated light fitting, you know that they know that you know that every pencil mark on their fucking clipboard will cost you money.

I have anxiety dreams where they come into my bedroom, in which someone (I guess me) has scrawled ‘The Devil Made Me Do It’ in black marker across the walls.


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