“So, what are we going to do if we get evicted?”
Who the fuck cares? At this point they’re lucky I don’t burn it down out of spite.
My body has started to object to how much physical labor I demand from it daily, and I wish you dead every day. Just fucking die.
The nights would not be complete without sirens. It’s such a prominent part of the neighborhood that I can easily tune it out along with the sound of shots fired, and the low musical rumble of car audio base. At some point having bullet holes–both incoming and outgoing–pepper the walls just becomes part of the decor.
I exaggerate. There are only four bullet holes, and I screamed when they dropped in.
Sometimes, nice people just need more specific directions to the drug den across the street, three houses to the east, or in the west corner lot next door…depending on demeanor. That’s fine, but get the fuck off my stoop and be on your way.
Please, don’t loiter in my backyard. Cut through, but keep moving. Despite what the fast food fucks sharing the lot line want you to think, this isn’t part of their thoroughfare either.
If getting a dog gets us evicted, when the neighbors can ram their car into our wall without consequence, I’m fine with that.
Believe is or not, my student loan debt isn’t going to dictate my surroundings forever, and an eviction from this wouldn’t fuck up my permanent record enough for me to give a shit.
Now…you said something about a dog?