I always get stuck with the crazy landlords.
In Newfoundland, I had the father of the current Pop Star, and for a while he used to just randomly stop over to 'check up'. And he'd mow our lawn at crazy times. Oh well, I shouldn't complain. Kinda like a brush with fame. (in a six-degrees of Kevin Bacon/Newfoundland kind of way)
Now I have to go to my last Halifax apartment to get rid of a shopping cart, or risk not getting my six-hundred dollar damage deposit back. Fun.


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