I'm a very private person. Oh sure, I babble in this blog and whomever wants to can read it, but it is stuff I choose to share, so I don't mind. But I hate it when people are in my space when I haven't invited them.
So imagine how happy I was when I got notices dropped in my mailslot on Friday morning, announcing that I was going to have two separate visitors to my apartment. They needed to inspect the place to see what renos need to be done after I leave (the person who lives here next gets an all new bathroom. Lucky sob!) and then they wanted to show my apartment to potential renters. No, I didn't just sigh and accept it. Do you even know me at all? That's right. I freaked out. I hate the thought of people being able to rummage through my life. That's actually the part of my death that upsets me most. I don't like the thought of people being able to go through and see stuff that was private and I didn't want anyone to see. But I'll get therapy to deal with that, and hopefully I have some time to do that, freak accident notwithstanding.
More importantly, more pressingly, I have to deal with the notion that until I move out, this place isn't really my own. I mean, they booked a viewing of the apartment for 10am. On a Saturday. And didn't even ask me. The person who came to see it was from out of town, so even when I called to try and see if the viewing could be delayed, I was out of luck. That's right, some person who may rent my apartment has more of a right to be in my place whenever than I do.
I can't wait till I move.