I’ve got some new neighbors that just moved in next door and down stairs. What are they like you ask? Well, the lady next door is … well she’s amazing. She’s 300 lbs if she’s one and apparently enjoys the heat. I say this because its been over 100 degrees on a regular basis and she has yet to use her AC. I figure she’s trying to save money on the power bill but that’s just ridiculous. As if that weren’t enough, she cooks too. I use that term lightly because whatever it is she’s cookin up in there, I’m not sure its dead yet. Anyway instead of the AC she uses a fan and leaves her front door open. That lets all that nice smell of sweat and soul food mix together and spill out into the hall between our apartments. Its lovely. To top it all of, she’s got her bed set up so that there’s a clear line of site from my front door, through her open door, right to her usually bare stomach. I swear it draws my eyes towards it with some sort of demented gravitational force. Sometimes there’s a bag of Cheetos there to block my view. God bless those Cheetos… even if I can’t ever eat them again.
The neighbors that moved in down stairs are a bunch of college guys. I’m not quite sure how many there are but at this point it doesn’t really matter. I’ll just refer to them from now on as one singular person, College Guy, because I’m quite sure they share one brain, and quite possibly not even that, among how ever many of them there actually are. You know Bluto from Animal House? A genious compared to these whiz kids. They’re loud, dumb and most of the time drunk. Usually that means they’re my kind of guys. However, living next to them… not so fun.
To be honest, any morning that I don’t have to step over one of them passed out on the steps, I consider a moral victory. They’ve had the cops called on them twice now and one got arrested for throwing a beer bottle at the cop as he walked away. I’m telling you, its a veritable think tank down there.
The last new neighbor is a Crackhead and his dog.. and not just any crackhead. He’s the king of all crackheads. He’s passed more drugs through his hands and body than every single Columbian combined… ever. He’s this 50 something burned out hippy who shuffles around almost silently. I say silently because he’s got this hound that howls at anything that moves. People, cars, leaves… the wind… everything. I hate that dog. And, even though he looks all calm and nice, I have no doubt that if you got between Crackhead and his drugs he’d shiv you with a sharpened crack spoon in the blink of a bloodshot eye.
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