This post will be available in video format as soon as I figure out how to work Imovie, since my Final Cut Pro finally figured out I illegally downloaded it and wants an “authentication” or some bull shit. Anyway, below you will find some words.
I woke up hungover, which for any of you who have ever been hungover, you know it’s not a very good way to wake up.
Work was fine, but slow and I didn’t really want to be there. It was sunny and I was powered by an energy drink and a can of french cut green beans (woo diet!) so I was having a hard time staying focused. Chair circles, and one, and two, and three.
The time comes to ride my bike home and I nearly die from choking on my own sweat while simultaneously dry heaving. I arrived home, ending the worst, thigh-chaffing 15 minutes of my life, parked Gatsby (yes, I named my bike Gatsby) into the rape basement, and come to find a colony of ants decided to move into the kitchen while I was at work. Naturally, I bleach the shit out of them. Fucking free loaders. I then realize the cat has knocked over our glass Ikea shelf where all of our plants hung out on. The plants are strewn all across the floor. Dirt. Is. Everywhere. I start collecting shards of glass using my hands, instead of a dust pan, because that was just the kind of mood I was in.
Low and behold I hear a violent knock on the front door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
I run to the door covered in sweat, my $40 t-shirt bleach stained, and wielding a handful of glass.
Note that this was not the friendly knock of the pizza delivery man this time friends, oh no. It was Deborah. That old crabapple that was birthed from a demon’s womb back in 1924, who never died and then decided to stop living off sheep’s blood and start feeding on the happiness of her neighboring South East Portland residents.
FUCK.
I answer the door with my non-glass hand.
“What was that?! What fell?!” Her dumpy face exclaimed.
“Our cat was trying to hunt a fly, but he’s not very good at it, and he knocked our shelf down.”
“What kind of shelf was it?!” She’s spitting as she yells.
Wait what? What kind of question is that. I humor her, “It was an Ikea shelf, it was made of glass.” I giggled the pieces in my hand to make a point, hoping she would sympathize with the shotty craftsmanship of Dutch wholesale furniture.
No dice.
“My light fixture broke! I’m calling the landlord!” She hisses with her snake mouth.
I appologize which for some reason makes her hulk out even more.
“You girls are always stomping around up there. It’s like a circus upstairs! And I know it’s not just you three up there. I see men come and go at all hours of the night. Sometimes it’s like a clown car coming out the front door in the morning.”
Deb must have a thing against carnies, with all these circus references. But hold up. Did Deb just call me a loose woman? Not cool Deb. Not cool.
Now I’m mad. No one is allowed to check out the men I’m trying to sneak out of my room at all hours of the night and call me out on it! Get your own Tinder account Deb! (I actually think she was referring to the guys in our writers room for my comedy show, but either way it’s none of her damn business.)
I run up the stairs and immediately call our landlord Dan. That’s right Deb, I’m telling on you. Take that! Dan reassures me that Deb is in fact a lunatic and might in fact be a demon. He advises me to salt my doors and apologizes for the trouble. I appologize for using him as my therapist and promised I won’t burn this entire complex to the ground to smite her.
Needless to say this was the worst 420 ever, and now I’m off to play “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter on full blast next to vent that leads to her bedroom for a couple hours.
XOXO,
Deborah’s whore-elephant circus loving neighbor
milky feelings 