Monday, February 18, 2008


...the most racist, horribly hilarious term for a person I have ever heard in my life. And yet, she is one. Only, we don't have a porch. Just a shared balcony (which, by the way, is the dumbest architectural idea for an apartment house, EVER). So, balcony monkey?

I looked back at my bLOG and I have been having problems with this B.M. (also stands for Bowel Movement) since 2006. Scroll down for lovely pictures. Yeah. Now she keeps her TRASH CAN out there. Not just her actual trash. Her trash CAN. As if to say, I am too good to have trash in my apartment. However, it is perfectly OK for the person next door (lucky me) to have to look at/smell it.

What an inconsiderate, clueless, and selfish B.M.

It gets worse.

Lately, when I have been standing in my very own (supposedly) kitchen, or opening/closing windows when B.M. happens to walk by, which is all the time, I have thought I have heard some smart-mouthed remarks from Herself or the approx. 5 illegal tenants she has living in there.

Then, there was the time I had a bag of gargage explode on me (and I mean literally ON me - our dumpster is approx. 1/2 mile away down a steep flight of stairs). Which is the LAST thing on earth anybody wants to have happening to them. Because NO ONE enjoys cleaning up hot garbage juice, off the stairs and/or her person. Which is what I was doing, immediately post-explosion, with bleach and my one good kitchen sponge, when B.M. stickers her stupid nappy-assed (yes, Don Imus) head into the hallway, out the door she NEVER uses, because she is too busy stomping across the balcony DIRECTLY OUTSIDE MY KITCHEN AND BATHROOM WINDOWS, and complains.

This is rich, because a) it was an accident, b) I was cleaning it up directly, and c) she never uses that entrance. She only comes home at 1:30 AM, stands directly outside my bathroom window (no wonder I have I.B.S.) and talks, at full volume, on her cell phone INSTEAD of going into her own damn apt. Or entertains men (her son? Boyfriend? Who can tell?) who walk down the enclosed, non-ventilated hall with a lit cigarette. I moved 1300 miles away from my mother in order to avoid this; now it's living next door.

Now apparently she has gone so far as to actually complain to the landlady, who (despite multiple tenant complaints about this person and the fact that she'd totally ignoring landlady-imposed 10 PM Balcony Monkey Curfew) apparently came by to sniff my windows, which I leave open a crack. (Did she not see that B.M. keeps HER TRASH OUT THERE?!) I feel violated. I also feel like putting a Poice Line, Do Not Cross tape out there, except it would say PLEASE REFRAIN FROM SNIFFING MY WINDOWS, YOU FREAKING NOSY FRICKING CUNT. Or, if you do not like the smell of my apartment, STAY OFF THE GODDAMN BALCONY. Some people just don't learn. Also, for your information, I buy expensive cat litter; I scoop (at least) daily, and no cat box on earth reeks as bad as your goddamn cigarette smoke-! And last I checked, cat turds do NOT cause cancer (although I know some cat owners who might disagree).

God, I hate the B.M. and my stupid ninny bleeding-heart landlady, who has also just informed me that a mewling infant will be moving in downstairs, right after they are done with the Loud Construction At All Hours of the Day.

Maybe I'll do a Self-Help Eviction.


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?