Same old, same... oh, forget it
I am sitting at my parents' computer. I have sexy blowdried curls, makeup on, gold drop earrings, a filthy black sweater that used to come down almost to my knees but then I washed it - just the once - and it shrank to above my waist; my brown check divorce pants (so named because they're the worst thing about our marriage) and black socks of Steve's with holes in the toes. I basically came home from a meeting after work and threw on my painting clothes to get cracking on Venice. Steve was out, I was planning on eating a bacon and cheese and tomato bagel at about nine, it was going to be a good solid painting session. And then the $#%^@%$! next door started his routine. Last night was the worst it's ever been, it was like he was actually going insane. I swear, he must be on P. All I could hear was his partner screaming and telling him not to do something and him saying yes he would (not in actual words you understand, the only word he can enunciate with any clarity is the f-bomb - did you know that it can actually be noun, verb, adverb, emphasis, expletive and adjective, all at the same time?). Tonight he was telling her that she thought she knew fear well she didn't know fear... Then the noise got so loud it was like he was fighting in our driveway and I grabbed my bag, some spare undergarments and hightailed it to ma and pa's, my heart going like a jackhammer. Now I'm wondering if I should have called the police. If only he'd learn to speak more clearly and make his threats in plain English so I'd have something to quote him on, I'd do it. Welcome to my life.