Fucking Qwest, Part 3

So, I called the service number back to ask WTF was going on with the repair, and was told that the technician had come to the apartment complex, not been able to get inside, and instead of talking to the apartment manager like I'd told them he'd need to like SIX FUCKING TIMES called the contact number to talk to *me* and (when I didn't answer, because I was in the bathroom or at a meeting or something) left a cryptic message with only his phone number, then reported it as 'oh, I can't get in'.

Them: "You didn't tell us he'd need to talk to the apartment manager."
Me: "Yes. Yes I did. I told three separate people three different times."
Them: "The technician tried to call the number you gave them for the apartment manager and didn't get a response."
Me: "I didn't give them a number for the apartment manager, they were supposed to go to the office and talk to the apartment manager, or maybe read the contact number *written on the door*. They asked for a number to contact *me*, so I gave them my work number."
Them: "So what's the number for the apartment manager:"
Me: "I have no fucking clue. Can't you just go to the damn office? If it's not during business hours they aren't going to be able to let you in anyway."
Them: "I'm sorry, sir, we need to have a contact number."

*sigh*

So I have to figure out what number to give them -- I have two, and I gave them both, but they were all like 'I need you to be absolutely certain what number we call, we can't have anything vague on the trouble ticket because our technicians are lobotomized monkeys and have to follow a set procedure exactly, which involves calling someone on a phone to get in touch with them instead of opening a door and walking into an office and talking to them.'. So, fuck.

FUCK.

Meanwhile, the building repairman is like 'did you get rid of the bedbugs yet?'

Me: "No, I'm still working on trying to steam them out, but it doesn't let it look like it's working."
Him: "Well, you need to tell the office if you're still having trouble."
Me: "I *did*. Saturday. When I asked to borrow the steamer again so I could try again after spending the last fucking month trying to clean out junk."
Him: "Maybe they're in your couch. You have to tell the office about them so that we can --"
Me: "I *did*. I have been. For the last month I've been working on the plan they told me to use. I talked to them Saturday, most recently."

Yeah, maybe they are. But the ones in my couch (if they exist, I checked the couch pretty thoroughly and didn't see any, not that I see any EVER) aren't the ones biting me at night, most likely, since when I first got them and they were only in my matress sleeping in the living kept them from walking over to bite. And I'm being bitten while I sleep still.