I offer one last example of writing that all-too-important Resignation
Letter. Like many college students, I spend some time living in
a run-down house. It was one of those dilapidated houses that would
easily be condemned if there weren’t so many college kids
desperate to move out of Mommy and Daddy’s house.
paint was peeling. The ceiling was caving in. The floors were creaking.
The kitchen was conquered by an army of insects. The living room
couch was from 1972, and probably wasn’t cleaned since then.
when it came time for me to leave, I decided it was more important
to honestly voice my opinions than quietly wait for the damage deposit.
I figured that I wasn’t going to get the money after writing
this, and neither did my housemates, but they cheered me on:
keys are here on the table, alongside the “checklist”
you left by the door. Everything, as I’m sure you can see,
is perfectly cleaned and in its place.
fact, I’d be bold enough to say Room 206 is in better shape
than when I moved in six months ago. Sure, the repairs I was promised
– dresser drawer, table knobs, blinders and the like –
were never done, but who am I to complain? The cockroaches roaming
the hallways on every floor were always happy, to say nothing
of the basement and front porch. I guess the insect kingdom is
exempt from Gopher State’s “no pets” clause.
Again, I have no reason to complain; my room was fine.
appreciate your job in trying to “sell” this place
to desperate college students. It’s tough to convince someone
to pay out money when the kitchen roof’s caving in and the
paint is chipping and the numbers by the front floor are literally
falling off the wall. Of course, the rental license really didn’t
expire five years ago; I’m sure that’s just your sense
weeks after I moved, I got a letter in the mail. It was the damage