2003-09-04

Please go pay your respects to my newest imaginary boyfriend. Heed my words � you shall not be disappointed. Big funny awaits you.

And now, for the continuing saga of My Fucking Apartment Building. Tuesday night, my (still unemployed! Blarg!) sister arrived home (drunk) to find the fat kids peering out of their doorway in myopic consternation like dumpy, startled cave-creatures. The residents of the newly-occupied apartment above them, and directly below us, were creating some sort of violent ruckus featuring lots of unholy shrieking and thumping. After ascertaining that yes, in fact, this was genuine distress and not just the bangers in the next apartment, you know, shouting to the devil or whatever it is that bangers do, my sister and her friend knocked on the door. The female occupant came to the door obviously upset and covered in wine. Head to toe. Red wine. Now, I�d be powerful cranky too if any boyfriend of mine had the audacity to waste potables in such a manner, but apparently this was a bona fide domestic dispute and not merely a spontaneous liquor fight. My sister invited the teary-eyed victim up to our place (�Auugh! Don�t sit on the couch!�) and they called the police, after which the requisite exposition was, well, exposited: Girl found out that Boy (in this case, her fianc� � oh, the pathos!) was cheating on her, Girl confronted Boy, Boy got all �Shut up, ho! You be crazy!� and made with the wine shower. It�s the oldest story.

Alas, the promise of further drama will go unfulfilled: the woman (who actually seemed really nice and normal when I met her, and was not in the least blue-eyeshadowed or be-spandexed or otherwise a visible member of the cheap-liquor-throwing demographic) is fleeing back home to the East Coast, and Mr. Winebeater/Wifebeater/Whatever is moving out. I can only imagine what monstrosities will infest the place next. I just hope they don�t like to cook goats.