An Open Letter to No Shows

I apologize for missing your call.  When the showing service called at 10:51 and requested to show our house at 10:45, I was in a meeting and my phone wasn’t available (and little did I know that I lived in a time warp where my house could make time go backwards!)  I heaved a sigh of relief when I was able to reschedule the showing to a later time (6pm – 7pm,) giving me an entire lunch break and part of an afternoon to clean the house in anticipation of you actually buying it.  

I rushed home, in a dress that could have walked out of “The Stepford Wives.”  Not having time to actually mop, I decided to spot scrub the kitchen floor with a sponge.  Yes, I was crawling around on my kitchen floor, cleaning device in hand, in a plaid halter dress and one of the cats who obviously knew I was deranged.  I put up clothes, shoes, microphones in their proper places.  I ran up and down the stairs probably 17 times (note:  not an inflated number.)  My nicely-straightened bangs of the morning?  Sweat-drenched and slowly going back to curly.  My hand?  Bleeding from…something.  My choice of words?  Loud, alarming, and at times, completely fabricated.   But my house?  My house was freakin’ clean. 
I went back to work, smelling like someone who had just run up 17 flights of stairs in the middle of August in the middle of Tennessee (oh wait – that’s exactly what I did) and proceeded to convince my (very understanding…or maybe he just wanted me out of his office because I smelled so bad) boss to let me leave just a bit early so I could rush home and put the final touches on my showcase de home.  After furiously shoving some last minute items under the bed, corralling three cats into carriers, hauling out food dishes, litter boxes, and other sundries, I politely left the house in anticipation of your arrival.  I was early, so I brought the People magazines that I previously stashed under the sink.  “Foresight,” I thought.  “It’s a hell of a drug.”  It was still pretty hot, but not wanting to run my car for an hour (gas is exorbitant, just in case you didn’t know) I went in intervals of “turn on the car for AC” and “turn off the car for before you declare bankruptcy.”  The cats didn’t seem to mind. 
I read one magazine.  I then completed the crossword puzzle (well, almost completed it.)  I checked my watch and told myself, “They’re probably stuck in traffic.”  I chatted with the security guard, who wished me good luck with the showing.  I jokingly replied, “Thanks!  We need it!”  (Foresight – it’s a hell of a drug.)  I read another People magazine.  I started to fill out the crossword puzzle when the realization hit me.  You, you piece of trash, stood me up at my own house. 
My eyes went a bit blurry and I felt veins pulsing in places you’re not supposed to have veins, and I punched the center console of my car so hard that my hand throbbed for several minutes (and is currently bruising.)  You see, as the time approached 6:30, it was in the back of my brain…”What if they don’t show up?  What if I just did all this for nothing?” but me, being the optimistic dipshit I am, refused to believe that voice that was growing louder with each tick of the clock.  When it finally hit me that you are, in fact, a complete idiot with no sense of time OR decency, I freakin’ had a little meltdown in the parking lot.  Sobbing uncontrollably out of anger, then disappointment, then the realization that we very well may die in this house (be it from old age or the fire I’m going to set to it – take your pick) made me stop and focus all that negative energy on to something that totally deserves it – you. 
I wished things on you and your family that I won’t even put into print, lest it turn into something, let’s say, premeditated.  I don’t even know you, person of dumbassery, yet I can tell you one thing – you are a prick and deserve all of the things that I previously alluded to but wouldn’t commit to typing. 
You didn’t just miss an opportunity to see a house – you’ve brought down upon you a veil of bad karma so thick that you could throw it on the floor at the Brady’s house and call it shag.  You wasted my time.  You wasted my energy.  You wasted my dinner.  And the clincher?  YOU MADE ME MISS THE TITANS OPENING KICKOFF.  
So here’s to you, dumb jackbag (told ya I was fabricating words.) I hope you find a house suitable for your needs.  Heaven knows you won’t need appliances, as you’re probably too stupid to work them anyway, and you obviously don’t need the clocks because you’re an arrogant asshole to whom time does not apply.  I hope this house is infested with bed bugs that are infested with fleas.  I hope someone dumps dirty mattresses on your front lawn on a nightly basis (but they won’t get caught with the expensive surveillance equipment you’re going to buy to catch them!)  I hope your neighbors have a meth lab and several unattended bee hives.  In short?  I hope you’re as miserable for at least some amount of time and have no idea why this misery is taking place in your life.
Because that’s what you did to me, and karma isn’t just a friend of mine.  She’s a bitchy, bitchy friend.  And I hope she finds you, dominates you, and then makes you cry and punch something in a parking lot because the world is full of moronic hacks such as yourself.