I am surrounded by the neighbors from Hell. In the apartment next to me, whose front door faces mine, is a ghastly poly-drug abuser who I call Cursula; heroin, methadone, Valium, Zanax, alcohol, are all imbibed by the truckload, unconscious in her manky bed for weeks, nothing can mollify her existential angst. She is an egregious hoarder, so much rubbish piled into her flat she can't receive her guests, they can't fit amid the putrid garbage so she entertains them by my front door, yakking, squabbling, yahooing till I have to put my head out the door and scream for them to "fuck off!"
Every day she parks more junk from the local dumpsters on my porch and every day I cart it back to the dumpsters. She leaves a slimy mess behind her like some drunken slug, spilled coffee, cigarette butts, junk food packaging, empty booze bottles, cleaning it up daily has me exhausted, I just can't do it any more.
She's always at my door whining, asking for something, even if it's just verbal abuse, calling through my door when I have guests so she can join in our conversations, she's driving me fucking bonkers till I hope some serial killer strangles her with a necktie like in Hitchcock's movie "Frenzy". I know this is a shocking incitement of violence towards a woman but it shows to what pathetic, psychotic depths I've sunk to think of such things, obviously not good for my mental health. And don't worry, every day I forgive her and we have a near cat and dog symbiotic relationship, she's the dog.
The cops have been called fifty times but he acts all innocent like butter wouldn't melt in his pudgy arse, "Who me, I wouldn't do that." As soon as the cops go, up blares the bad music, "The Boys of Summer", Christmas carols or the American National Anthem. Lately it's been Justin Bieber's "Sorry", it's sacharine melody prepping me to be an axe murderer.
I am sending this Statement of Living Conditions at Northcott Estate to every person who is the Manager at every level of the Housing Dept Bureaucracy, to the Ombudsman, to the Lord Mayor’s Office, to the Health Dept to see if someone will lend me succour. Nobody replied except, after a month, my "client officer" who commiserated but could do little except have a word with the nut-job, for the bastard's under the protection of the Mental Health Department. What a joke! In the meantime I'm writing, painting, keeping the wolves from my door, and trying not to have another heart attack.