It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

My three neighbors in my apartment building are all fucking insane. There’s Jesus Freak, The Pack Rat, and Militia Guy.

The Jesus Freak is pretty self-explanatory. She eats, breathes, and sleeps the lord. It’s all Jesus, all the time. She doesn’t smoke, doesn’t curse, and doesn’t drink. Not even caffeine. She has a Jesus license plate on her car, only listens to Jesus music, and goes to church (or some church-related event) every day of the week.

While she is always nice to me, I suspect only because my Dad is the landlord, I know she judges me like crazy. She has heard me say “jesus fucking Christ” and “goddamn” quite a few times, and has seen a few different guys coming and going at various hours of the day and night, not to mention the numerous times she has seen me stumbling to get to my door after coming home from some sort of alcohol-fueled adventure.

After the fiasco of Saturday night with Jason, she saw him dropping me off the next morning, and asked me if we were still seeing each other. So, I responded. “No, we’re not seeing each other anymore. He just took me a strip-club last night, then we went to a whorehouse, and went back to his place and knocked it out one last time, for old time’s sake. But we’re not together anymore. Have a great day!” And then I went into my apartment.

I peeked through my blinds and saw she was still just standing there, not doing anything.

Is it wrong to have fun at the expense of her religious values? I think not.

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The Pack Rat is a late 50’s, crazy-ass Librarian who scares me. She is small, and somewhat troll-ish looking. I have never been inside her apartment, but I can see through her windows that she has books and magazines piled EVERYWHERE. From floor to ceiling in some places. My Dad has told her that he wants her to get all that junk out, but she hasn’t done it.

She is really crazy. She talks to her self ALL THE TIME, and has entire conversations with the plants outside of our apartments. She named her cat after herself.

When I first moved in there, she used to come up to my door and just start talking to me through the screen, because my dumb ass Dad told her that I was diabetic (as is she), so she was asking me all these questions about my diabetes.

I remember the first conversation we had she kept telling me she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get her blood sugar under control, and how she kept upping her meds, but she couldn’t see why her numbers weren’t lower. Maybe the fucking doughnut she was eating while she was telling me was an indication.

She doesn’t talk to me anymore. Thankfully.

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Militia Guy is the scariest of all my neighbors. He is about 6’6, has a shaved head, crazy serial-killer looking glasses, and has several teeth missing.

He’s extremely EXTREMELY conservative. He has a stockpile of weapons inside his apartment. He never goes to sleep. He drives a scary child molester van. He has the confederate flag hanging in his apartment.

There was a kid once who was riding his bike down the street and sometimes rode up on his grass, and he walked up to the kid, pulled him off his bike, grabbed his arm, to told the kid he didn’t ever want to see him in front of his apartment again.

That kid wasn’t the only one scared shitless that day.

When I started dating The Hot Egyptian, Militia Guy was nice enough to clue my Dad in about it, and express his concern that I was dating “one of them,” and that he was concerned about him being around the apartments.

I got pissed about that for two reasons. One, I keep my private life private. My parents don’t know who I am messing around with unless it is serious, and worth them knowing about. And two, I fucking hate that just because he is Egyptian that asshole made some sort of assumption about him. T.H.E. was born and raised in Southern California. He’s a surfer. How many fucking terrorists get up at five in the morning to go surfing every day?

So, I confronted Militia Guy about it, and told him to mind his own fucking business, that if I based my opinions on appearance alone, I would expect to find a swastika tattoo somewhere on his body, and not to be a goddamned tattle tale and go reporting shit to my Dad if he didn’t like something.

Asshole.

After that confrontation (and still, really), I was afraid I was going to wake up one morning and see his creepy ass standing over my bed waiting to strangle me.

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Last night I went home and poured a stiff drink and listened to Billie Holiday and Miles Davis for a few hours.

It’s amazing how such sad music can have the opposite effect on my disposition. I am feeling much better today.

Thanks to everyone for the good thoughts.