Tuesday, September 26, 2006


I just wrote two ranty e-mails to people who frequent this sh*t so I figured I might as well post it.

I thought perhaps you might like to hear about MY VERY OWN juvenile delinquent-! It is like a Pet Rock except obnoxious by reason of the fact that It is not an inanimate object! Although It looks kind of like one!

Unfortunately, It belongs to is my next door neighbor! Several tenants have been complaining about It, its girlfriend, Its mother's boyfriend, and the mother herself, a pre-rehab, Bobby-Brown-goes-down era Whitney Houston lookalike who is SUPPOSED to be the only one living there; I am just the only complainer who happens to live immediately next door. Aren't I just the lucky one?!

AWOL juvy scum offspring of my crack whore neighbor, i.e. It, is black and has a mohawk (WTF?) and a little juvy-jailbait girlfriend, who, with an identical blackhawk, looks like a cross between It and a potato, except sluttier. Its hobbies are: wearing Slayer and Iron Maiden t-shirts (bands which were on their way out, if not totally obsolete, by the time *I* graduated high school ca. 1993), hanging out in the garage with a container of what is either orange juice or Its own urine, looking homeless, and playing in the street by the bus stop on Wilshire, causing me almost to hit It with my car (and regret swerving to miss It soon afterward).

I try to tell myself not to freak out, that there is just no accounting for teenage taste in music or hairstyles; that I did similar things for shock value when I was Its age, and to just to ignore the letters from Juvenile Hall and the truancy office which get plastered to my fine, upstanding neighbor's door, which she (what a responsible parent!) marks as "not at this address" and returns to sender.

Granted, on a technicality, her evil spawn is NOT supposed to be living there, but thanks to my bleeding-heart landlady (who claims she's known ITs mother for 'a number of years', but I'm guessing who was actually a participant on a case study of crack babies for her masters of psych program), It is either there on the down-low or she just doesn't want to deal with It, is afraid of It, and/or doesn't think It actually lives there, but I am pretty sure It sometimes lives IN THE GARAGE, which is also freaky, especially when I come home late at night.

And yes, I know that It must be her kid because the former, blessedly quiet occupant of that apt. was a) blessedly childless, b) blessedly Korean, but never did once run over me with her car - how considerate! c) blessedly invisible -the only proof of her actual existence was left on our retardedly shared balcony in the form of three (3) mops; d) blessedly NEVER tromped past my kitchen and bathroom windows repeatedly at strange hours, never yelled at me through my exposed door and windows because she was high on painkillers (yeah, right - I was on painkillers for some time, and never once felt inspired to stand in HER doorway in my Aunt Jemima doo rag and holler at her), or spontaneously decided to start flower arranging on the balcony at midnight (an hour and a half past Bleeding-Heart Landlady-imposed Balcony Curfew) while loudly jangling all her damn wind chimes, like she did last night, and certainly was NOT eeee!) a black mohawed kid named "Korr".

I suppose I should just feel lucky that I don't live in Turdministan or that we are not related in some way, but still. To repeat: WTF?!

I would much rather live next door to the Pet Rock, even if it did play loud music that went, "FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! RAH, RAH, RAH!!!".


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