it's the weekend
I hate the weekend. it sucks, it just totally sucks. there's nothing to do and no one to see, okay I'm being hyperbolic, there IS stuff to do and people to see, just not the same things and people as on weekdays. I like school. I like going to class and seeing my classmates and talking to my professors and eating in the cafeteria. it feels normal. weekends feel unnatural. I have had to force myself to keep busy this weekend. yesterday I woke up at 10:45, went out to school and ate breakfast at one, then studied in the library until four, stopped by Office Depot, went back to school and walked in the woods for an hour before dark, ate dinner in the cafeteria, and came home, where I brooded until midnight before going to bed.
today has been better. I woke up at one, took a shower, went to my good friend Lindsey's HS graduation party, left at 4:30 and got home by five, where I've been studying for the past 3 and 1/2 hours. writing an English paper, to be precise. it's due tomorrow afternoon and I hadn't started it until just today. heh, was procrastinating apparently: I didn't realize it was due tomorrow until I looked at the syllabus on Friday. I tried to start writing it yesterday while I was at the library, but I was just too distracted by my emotions.
and now I'm distracted by the damn neighbors. they're so fucking loud it's fucking ridiculous. every night for at least an hour between 6 p.m. and 9:00, they're fighting and banging and yelling and causing things to crash. I almost called the police the other night but didn't have the nerve. I don't know whether I'm supposed to call 9-1-1, or the actual police station. so I didn't call. if I can figure it out, or perhaps, if I can figure out (deduce, haha) the number of the police station, I would call it every time I heard them crashing about. if that means every night, then so be it: all the sooner before they're kicked out, leave on their own, or get sent to jail.
I think the father's a wife-beater. sorry for the derogatory term, but he's a real maniac. I mean, he puts on this real nice front in public, but when he's at home in private he's the one doing all the yelling and banging. I don't know that I ever hear the wife's voice, but I certainly hear the daughter scream quite often. she's about 6 years old. I suspect the father may be abusing her while the wife is out of the house, and that that's what all the noise is. in which case I definitely ought to call the police. but then, I could be wrong; it may be just some innocent domestic violence. of course, I'm kidding: domestic violence is never innocent. I know this from personal experience.
but, the point remains, that they scare me even more than my other neighbors, who yell and shout and slam doors and such--but I think they moved out, which leaves only these crazy people upstairs who need to be arrested and the daughter taken away.
. . . . . . . . . .
I looked up the number for special victims in my city, and called them hoping to speak to a real person, but instead got an answering machine. I didn't know what to say, so I hung up. then I listened to the people some more, finally worked up the courage to go outside and check their apt. no. to make sure I knew it properly, and then called back. no answering machine this time. it just rang. eleven times before I finally decided to hang up and email them instead. so I went to fill out the form and when I finally clicked "submit", nothing happened. nothing. what bunch of crap this is. I can't work up the courage to report potential child abuse, and then once I finally do, I can't reach the police. I don't know what I'm going to do now. wait until tomorrow, I guess. it'll happen again. guaranteed. between six and nine p.m. like clockwork. I wonder if I'll have the courage to call the police again. I wonder how long I'm going to let this shit go on before I finally get up the nerve to report it. I wonder how many other of my neighbors can hear what goes on up there every night, and if they ever think of calling the police. I'm sure no one has yet. I don't know how I know, I just do: no one's called the police on them yet. it's sad, you know. that little girl--she's six, roughly--could be being terribly physically or, worse, sexually abused every single fucking NIGHT and I'm not doing anything about it. I'm just letting it happen. I feel like a total piece of shit, a selfish piece of human trash not worth living or being happy. I go about my days totally happy and blissful, and completely ignorant of what may be going on upstairs every night for an hour between six and nine p.m. to a completely innocent little girl. I'm going to burn in Hell if I don't do something--and I don't even believe in Hell.
today has been better. I woke up at one, took a shower, went to my good friend Lindsey's HS graduation party, left at 4:30 and got home by five, where I've been studying for the past 3 and 1/2 hours. writing an English paper, to be precise. it's due tomorrow afternoon and I hadn't started it until just today. heh, was procrastinating apparently: I didn't realize it was due tomorrow until I looked at the syllabus on Friday. I tried to start writing it yesterday while I was at the library, but I was just too distracted by my emotions.
and now I'm distracted by the damn neighbors. they're so fucking loud it's fucking ridiculous. every night for at least an hour between 6 p.m. and 9:00, they're fighting and banging and yelling and causing things to crash. I almost called the police the other night but didn't have the nerve. I don't know whether I'm supposed to call 9-1-1, or the actual police station. so I didn't call. if I can figure it out, or perhaps, if I can figure out (deduce, haha) the number of the police station, I would call it every time I heard them crashing about. if that means every night, then so be it: all the sooner before they're kicked out, leave on their own, or get sent to jail.
I think the father's a wife-beater. sorry for the derogatory term, but he's a real maniac. I mean, he puts on this real nice front in public, but when he's at home in private he's the one doing all the yelling and banging. I don't know that I ever hear the wife's voice, but I certainly hear the daughter scream quite often. she's about 6 years old. I suspect the father may be abusing her while the wife is out of the house, and that that's what all the noise is. in which case I definitely ought to call the police. but then, I could be wrong; it may be just some innocent domestic violence. of course, I'm kidding: domestic violence is never innocent. I know this from personal experience.
but, the point remains, that they scare me even more than my other neighbors, who yell and shout and slam doors and such--but I think they moved out, which leaves only these crazy people upstairs who need to be arrested and the daughter taken away.
. . . . . . . . . .
I looked up the number for special victims in my city, and called them hoping to speak to a real person, but instead got an answering machine. I didn't know what to say, so I hung up. then I listened to the people some more, finally worked up the courage to go outside and check their apt. no. to make sure I knew it properly, and then called back. no answering machine this time. it just rang. eleven times before I finally decided to hang up and email them instead. so I went to fill out the form and when I finally clicked "submit", nothing happened. nothing. what bunch of crap this is. I can't work up the courage to report potential child abuse, and then once I finally do, I can't reach the police. I don't know what I'm going to do now. wait until tomorrow, I guess. it'll happen again. guaranteed. between six and nine p.m. like clockwork. I wonder if I'll have the courage to call the police again. I wonder how long I'm going to let this shit go on before I finally get up the nerve to report it. I wonder how many other of my neighbors can hear what goes on up there every night, and if they ever think of calling the police. I'm sure no one has yet. I don't know how I know, I just do: no one's called the police on them yet. it's sad, you know. that little girl--she's six, roughly--could be being terribly physically or, worse, sexually abused every single fucking NIGHT and I'm not doing anything about it. I'm just letting it happen. I feel like a total piece of shit, a selfish piece of human trash not worth living or being happy. I go about my days totally happy and blissful, and completely ignorant of what may be going on upstairs every night for an hour between six and nine p.m. to a completely innocent little girl. I'm going to burn in Hell if I don't do something--and I don't even believe in Hell.