My neighbors are in fine form.
They got a new couch. We can see it from our deck, and they use it all the time. You know, to smoke pot and share their Deep Thoughts around a bonfire at midnight on Tuesdays.
Fine. Whatever. As long as they don’t burn down the Mission. Over a hundred years old and built of wood that’s been seasoning since, oh, 1880.
Sadly, their rent’s so high and they spent so much on the couch, they can’t afford a trash can.
A real shame. Just a slight decorator’s touch would make this a back yard to be proud of.
I’ve been complaining about them since I started this blog.
I suppose now we’re truly moving, I feel the need to mock them freely, if not openly and to their faces. My glee doesn’t quite overpower my desire for revenge, but this blog is all I have.
Perhaps my gloating so heavily and mocking them doesn’t say very nice things about my nature as a human being, or about how successfully I overcame my penchant for passive aggressive expression during psychoanalysis.
I can’t see my way clearly to care.
No Shared Walls, September, 2016.