|If only my neighbors and I were separated by acreage rather than non-insulated plywood. Source|
Let's talk about my neighbors.
I live on the bottom floor of a two story duplex.
My upstairs neighbors are apparently genetic experiments combining the heft and grace of an elephant, the subtlety of a Tyrannosaur, the acrobatic prowess of a herd of Bonobo apes, and the parasitic disinterest of humanity ingrained in a mosquito. Then, the demented scientists who created these Hulk-like-freaks, took this miasma of DNA and injected it with the instincts, predilections, and brain power of a thousand alcoholic clowns with head-trauma, and inseminated the womb of a gluttonous tap-dance enthusiast with Attention Deficit Disorder.
This mutant baby was raised with no outside contact in a bunker removed from humanity, its only relationship being with a firecracker it named "George." On occasion this mutant was allowed conjugal visits with a Kangaroo high on cocaine. Once a litter was bread, this brood was moved into an apartment above where I sleep, lined with pogo sticks, scattered marbles, showers that dispense crystal meth, and air conditioning that pumps out an enzyme causing a severe aversion to happiness
|This is one or all of the following: an illustration of my neighbors put on a shirt, a non-sequitur, a shirt that I want Source|
To put it more simply, I am besieged day and night by tireless rednecks (said in the most affectionately disparaging terms) who lack volume-control and apparently run track in their apartment wearing clogs.
What I can imply from afar (because I'm imbued with a pesky sense of self-preservation that prevents me from direct contact with these PCP-injected Gremlins) is there are three children of various ages from four-to-hormonal-driven who do not require sleep, they are lead and possibly slapped by an Alpha-Neck (the most-grunty and most sleeveless of the rednecks in the vicinity) who speaks only in yell, and a grandmother (in her thirties) with a bottomless liver also incapable of speaking at a volume necessary for comprehensible phone interaction.
To put it even more simply: There's a brood and they're rowdy and they don't know how to speak at a decibel level lower than "howler monkey confronted by predator."
I've done what I can:
- left a trail of Ritalin-laced Skittles from the bus stop to their front door
- paid a hoodoo witch doctor (yes, hoodoo, not voodoo that you do so well), to imbue them with empathy
- planted poppy plants on their front porch and called the ATF
- fed the adults Ambien, bought them airline tickets, and duct taped exotic animals to their inner-thighs
- and created a wall of books they would need to read to get out of their unit.
Or am I being too sensitive to 20-hour-marathon-scream-fights?
One day, I'll be free, live in a field, but then I'll probably be overrun by ants and amorous mountain lions, then I'll long for the days of rambunctious children and screaming, possibly abusive, adults.