Okay. I’m posting this fine morning on about 3 hours of sleep. I’ve never posted a bitchfest in the Pit before, but goddamnit, I’ve been pushed too far, a la Falling Down.
I was awakened last night, as I have been every night for the last three weeks at 2:30 in the morning by my neighbor’s 10-minute-long pounding and kicking on his back door, which is about ten feet from my bedroom window. This was AFTER a similar episode at 10:30 p.m., which woke my son up (on the other side of the apartment!). I don’t know what his problem is – maybe he works the graveyard shift, maybe he’s just an asshole who lost his keys up his ass after collapsing vomit-shellacked under his car after an evening of slamming Blatz and striking out at the local whorehouse, I dunno – but for Chrissakes, he better figure something out before I am forced to fling cat feces at him gorilla-style. These are the same neighbors who treat me to their Friday night fights. It would appear that the woman is a whore for wanting to go out with her friends, and she is also dressed like a whore with her fat ass, and why doesn’t she go on a diet instead of going out, and because the man is HER MAN she must STAY HER ASS AT HOME because HE SAYS SO, and lest she had forgotten, HE IS HER MAN. Oh, and these are the same fine folks who have three children who occasionally played with my son (this ended quickly when the youngest girl kicked my son square in the crotch because he wouldn’t let her ride his bike on the porch). I was treated to a window meeting with the gentleman in question when I was walking by myself across the street to pick up my laundry. This happy exchange began with the oh-so-sexy, works-every-time come-on that all Chicago women are familiar with, to wit:
Neighbor: “Psssst. Psst.”
I ignore it.
Neighbor: “Hey. You got a nice ass.”
I, displaying my superior intellect and gentility, flip the bird over my shoulder without looking back.
Neighbor: “Fuck you, bitch! I hope you get hit by that car!”
I turn around to face my accuser and hurl a pithy barb and am shocked to recognize my neighbor.
Neighbor: “Shit! It’s that kid’s mom!” (cleverly ducks behind window)
So anyway, back to this morning. After struggling to get back to sleep for an hour, I finally drift off. Then, at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., I am awakened by the twit that, rather than dragging his bedsore-ridden ass out of his minivan, leans on his horn for 12-second bursts over…and over…and over…and over. At this point, I have lost all sense; I throw on a robe and march downstairs fueled by righteous indignation and blind fury, and tap the pussbag’s window.
Gundy: “Hi there. I’m the person that you wake up at least twice a week before dawn with your car honking at an hour when most people are still sleeping.”
Pussbag: (rolling eyes) “Well, there isn’t no parking.”
G: “Yes, well, you’re double-parked anyway, and it’s five in the morning, there’s not a whole lot of traffic here so stopping long enough to ring a doorbell shouldn’t be a problem. Or maybe your friend could look out for you?”
PB: “She knows I’m coming, sometimes she’s just running late.”
G: (losing it rapidly) “So you think it’s better to wake up everyone in the neighborhood because she’s running late?”
PB: (spluttering) “Who the fuck are you anyway? Queen of the world?” (I swear to god, she actually said this)
G: (through teeth)“No, asshole, I’m just a person with more sense and manners than a crusty-ass bitch who blares her horn at 5 in the morning in a resi-fucking-dential neighborhood because she can’t haul her ass out of the car without a prybar!” (I think I may have actually said “out the car” at this point)
PB: “Fuck you!”
G: (once again, in fine rhetorical form) “Fuck YOU!” as I stomp off back to my apartment.
I really am not the type of person given to frequent swearing matches with strangers. And in general, I have a very long fuse. But do NOT mess with my sleep.
Ahhhh…I feel better. I actually am moving in two weeks, so these problems will vanish shortly, and that’s a relief. However, the new apartment comes with its own set of problems. My boyfriend, son and I found an apartment that is perfect for us – beautiful place, great size, great area, reasonable price, and a yard. A yard! It’s the size of a postage stamp, but it’s a safe place for my son to run around and for us to have dinner on summer nights, so I was thrilled. We snapped the place up. Then, we visited the apartment to find a suitable place to place a DirecTV dish, and noticed that the yard is a veritable minefield of multiple-pound, post-Thanksgiving-dinner sized piles of dog shit. I’m not exaggerating at all: every 8-12 inches there are salad-plate sized poops, about 30 total, frozen in the snow all over the yard. I suspect that they are compliments of the two large (and reputably nasty) dogs that live two floors up (it’s a 3-flat), whose greasy-combover-sporting owner apparently sees fit to use the communal yard as a doggie toilet – and never clean it up. Perhaps they are his own shitpiles, I can’t be sure. Now, I can see myself becoming a real bitch about this one. Hopefully, this will be neatly avoided by having a chat with the landlord. Damnit…that nervous twitch is coming back.
Where do these people come from? What fucked-up alternate dimension spat these drooling slack-jawed turdlings from its gaping bunghole? Am I just hypersensitive? Comments, similar experiences, suggestions…all are welcome. Thank you for letting my bore you with my whine.