I know you are all always dying to hear about my super awesome, high-class neighbors (aka the drug addicted freaks).  Saturday night we were hanging out on our patio with my family and some friends celebrating my mom’s birthday.  The Stella was flowing, the conversation was great, and everyone was having a great time.  It was probably a little before midnight when we heard a knock on the fence and the cracked-out voice of my neighbor, Joe.  Everyone went silent, but I knew we couldn’t just ignore him since he knew we were out there.

I opened the fence a bit to see what he wanted.  He said he wanted to officially introduce himself to us since we’d been neighbors for years.  Weird, but I went with it.  Then he let me know the most amazing news in the world (apparently the powers that be finally decided to answer my prayers) – their condo had been foreclosed on and they would be gone in two weeks.  Halle-fucking-lujah – not that I am one to rejoice in other people’s misery, but when you’ve lived next to garbage as long as we have, it’s nice to have someone finally take out the trash.

At that point, Joe also let us all know that Jane had moved out and left him and taken his dog.  This made me thrilled.  He used to rough her up when he was high, which is totally not acceptable in my book, and I was glad to know that she finally distanced herself from the loser (not that she’s much better herself).  Then he said how he was kind of depressed and heard us having fun, so he thought he’d pop by (so not cool).

After a minute of chatting, he asked if he could have a drink.  I figured I should stop being rude and offer Joe a beer, hoping that maybe he’d leave because we all know that’s the reason he came over.  He needed to bum booze of the self-sufficient 20-somethings.  He said he wasn’t a big beer drinker and asked if we had anything stronger.  We have an assortment of booze, so I figured I could offer him something, like Tom’s whiskey or scotch.  Imagine my complete delight when I mosied up to our bar and was greeted by a bottle of Bacardi 151.  I poured him a monster shot of warm 151, hoping that it would knock him out.  Of course it didn’t, since he’s used to hardcore drugs and all that jazz.  I gave him one more shot, and finally my sister’s boyfriend told him we were wrapping it up for the night.  He got the hint and left, but not before face-planting in the bushes behind our fence.  Revenge is sweet!

I haven’t been this happy in a while.  It’s going to be amazing to not have to hear mopeds that sound like Harleys being revved at all hours of the morning and the constant yelling, screaming and fighting coming from next door.  The parking lot will no longer look like a repair shop, and Jane’s sketchy brother won’t be driving through the place, constantly crashing his car into things.  I just hope no one weirder moves in after they are gone for good.

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