going to pot

It's almost midnight and there are people outside of our apartment yelling and carrying on, fighting and making the walls shake. The cat keeps looking at the door like it's going to jump off of the hinges and chase her under the bed. I glanced to make sure the chain was locked.

We don't live in the ritziest apartments, but they're not excessively grungy, either. They're middle-of-the-road in a nice-enough neighborhood. And tonight I'm bringing you a breaking story: I'm about to brave outside to figure out what all this noise is about... (tra-la, tra-la)

It's the apartment directly across from us, the new young neighbors, and I think there's a half-dozen or so people in there watching some kind of sports thing, cheering and carrying on. So it's not that exciting; no domestic dispute, no animal cruelty, no reason to call the cops. Just people having a good time.

I won't rain on that parade.*

You have to wonder what the imaginary line is you'd have to cross to upset the apple cart, rain on the parade. Last night while checking the mail I witnessed a drug deal. I pretended not to pay attention, but it went down just like it does on the HBO specials, in front of God and everybody.

Now that's a parade that pushes my buttons.


* Besides, if this goes on any longer I know my other neighbors will come ask them to cool down.**
** Exactly ten minutes after I wrote this, that's exactly what happened. She told him that they were watching a fight and it's over now. You gotta love predictability.