I was laying in bed the other night when I received a text message from my husband.

“Smoking?”

I was instantly confused, which doesn’t take much, believe me.

“Huh?”

“I smell cigarettes,” he replied.

“It’s not me!!” I furiously texted back.

“Must be the neighbors, sorry to bug you.”

Well, geez. If I was gonna take up smoking again, I sure as shit wouldn’t hide it from him. I might just have one now to spite him. (Nah, I’m just messing.)

We have these new neighbors behind us, who sit on their patio almost every evening, sometimes til the wee hours. It would be fine if they weren’t so loud, but of course they feel the fucking need to be obnoxiously present.

One night, after what I am assuming was a few alcoholic beverages, they started singing “I Just Want To Fly” by Sugar Ray. I happened to be in the kitchen when this nightmare occurred.

All around the world statues crumble for me
who knows how long I’ve loved you
everywhere I go people stop and they see
twenty-five years old my mother God rest her soul

Yeah, they had to be pretty shitfaced to sing this.

(Sugar Ray is now 45 years old and this song still sucks the big one.)

The condo association rebuilt our privacy wall the other day, the wood had been starting to rot. That wall is the only thing that keeps us blissfully separated from these new neighbors.

You can imagine my relief that they didn’t just take the whole wall down and leave us without one.

crone-fearnoweebes-dot-wordpress-dot-com
This is me in 20 years, saggy boobs and all.

I’m so grumpy, I like my oatmeal lumpy.

I’m not exactly sure when I started disliking most of the people in my neighborhood. Honestly, I think it’s due to the fact that so few of them seem to have any respect for boundaries. Sometimes, people get so close to my condo that I’ve almost been tempted to ask them if they’d like to come in for a hot beverage.

Come in, please. Take a load off. Would you like a strawberry scone? How about a lovely cup of tea?

With my luck, they’d take me seriously and not catch my sarcasm.

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