Something I learned just now, briefly after having returned from picking up my laundry: there are truly only two people in the world whom I sincerely mind washing my underwear... my father and the creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy who lives down the hall. Paternal being a normal taboo, I hope we understand. But MY GOD, I fucking hate the creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy who lives down the hall with the fires of Satan's unresolved yeast infection.
Right now he is sleeping on his floor and snoring loudly to the melodies of RIDICULOUSLY-VOLUMED television/radio. I know this for a fact because his fucking door is open and in so being, wafting the aromas of already-smoked marijuana--to which I protest (in my head), "CLOSE YOUR EFFING DOOR!!! I am uninterested in seeing your bare ass two inches from our communal hallway!" and, "As much as I am generally tempted by the smells and tastes of a good toke, the very idea of sharing a marijuana cigarette with you repulses me in way paramount to the time I aborted a direct descendent of J. Christ and wrote a poetic sequel to "The Da Vinci Code" (sestina) in a frenetic moment of catharsis. GOD! I hate that guy!
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In fact, just thinking about creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy washing my panties makes me want to cry...
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2 comments:
I think this post is incredibly witty and relevant, and anyone thinking otherwise is reading into things too much.
I'm so fucking afraid that you're my neighbor.... I need to clean up my act....
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