Like when I’m in the Village, just standing around, observing things, and people walk by all cussing and shit? Talking about “Fuck this” and “Fuck that” and “Fuck her” and “Fuck him” or [some other comment or even some sexist comment]. Yeah, I can tolerate that. I obviously say ‘fuck’, too. Cause you know why? Because they’re drunk. I get drunk sometimes, too. And drunks often say shit they don’t mean. I know this.

But when I’m walking home, when I’m walking to my fucking FRONT DOOR minding my own shit, and some shirtless, beefcake drunk of an asshole is standing outside shouting, and I’m STILL minding my own business even though it’s one o’clock in the morning and he’s shouting, when this shirtless drunk asshole calls me a “fucking dumb bitch” just for the fuck of it? Yeah, that’s when I get angry.

Because I’m you’re fucking neighbor, asshole. And we’re supposed to be ‘neighborly’.

So, Hi, welcome to the fucking ‘Plex.

So you know what, Patrick? You and your fucking parties on the weekend? They can hum. Because we are having words tomorrow. When we’re sober. And they ain’t gonna be pretty.

You still haven’t addressed your other asshole friend pissing in my fucking Ficus. So that’s coming out, too.

‘Fucking dumb bitch’, indeed.

Holy fuck if we ain’t civilized up in here.

Again, Canadian, I miss you.

The Partner and I spent Friday night with his elder sister, who was visiting from out of town. We had been hanging out on campus, entertaining ourselves with the sight that is Weekend Before Classes Start. Which means: watching and mocking the scantily-clad gals in stilettos trying to get laid mixed with guys acting macho trying to get laid going in-between the four bars closest to campus. It’s always hilarious. This Friday night we were able to get spots next to a great group of folks, whose main aim was critiquing all the drunks as they passed by us.

Rule #1: If you’re out to get drunk, don’t wear fucking stilettos.

Rule #2: Make sure your skirt/dress covers your ass. Your whole ass.

Rule #3: Drink water.

Highlights of the night include seeing three different gals fall while trying to (1) exit a building and (2) get off the curb and into the street and (3) just walk down the sidewalk, and two random guys pissing in bushes, which were in plain sight. Much to my disappointment, there were no pukers, no fist fights, and no one was arrested in front of me.

We ended our night and proceeded to our car. On our way past a fast food joint, we saw a neighbor, Patrick, sitting/slumped on the stairs.

“Hey, Patrick! Thought you were having a party at your place tonight.”

“Oh my god! The Partner! Anne! [stand up, stumble forwards into The Partner] What’s up?! …Where are my friends?!”

A confused conversation ensues, wherein we manage to learn Patrick’s lost the location of the friends he’s supposed to be with and is so drunk he doesn’t care and just wants a ride home.

Yay, neighbors!

We get him to our car, I point out the little garbage bag in case of pukeage, and we drive home. The whole time Patrick’s all drunkard and yelling out of the window at random people.

We arrive home and stumble out of the car to find his lights are all on, the doors are all locked, the windows are locked, he has no keys, and no damn cell phone. By this point he’s belligerent, we’re trying to get him to drink water, and asking him to remember his roommate’s cell number. It becomes a cycle. He finally remembers the cell number.

I call the roommate.

“Hey, Roommate, this is Anne, your neighbor. We found Patrick and he’s really fucking drunk, and without keys, so can you come let him in?”

“Who? Who is this?”

“Your neighbor. Patrick is sick. Can you come home?”

“[garble, background bar noise, background bar noise]”

Hang up. Text message Roommate.

“This is your neighbor. We are with Patrick. He is very drunk and has no keys and doors are locked. Can you come let him in?”

Reply: “Yea be there soon.”

Twenty minutes pass. Patrick has been wandering around the backyard, yelling, sitting, passing out, trying each door, stumbling about. Two people come into the backyard, a gal and guy. Say they last saw him falling onto the floor of a bathroom at a campus bar and passing out, but they weren’t sure what happened to him.

My thoughts: What the fuck kind of friends are you to see your friend pass out on a bathroom floor and not take him home?

They don’t have the keys, or any cell numbers, and eventually leave.

I message Roommate again. “Patrick is really sick. He’s pissing on the wall. Has no keys. Can you come get him?”

Reply: “What? Whos this?”

“Jesus christ. This is your neighbor. Patrick is fucking drunk as hell, has no keys, can you come let him in?”

“Alright on our way damn.”

Ten minutes later two guys show up, one very drunk, and they wake up Patrick, who has since been passed out in a chair, and they’re all, “Dude, you totally fell down in that bathroom! We didn’t know what happened to you!”

Great friends.

Saturday we get back from breakfast and are outside letting George out to do his thing. Patrick was down with some other neighbors playing cornhole, comes over and is all, “I just want to let you guys know I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just our last bash before classes. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m totally going to make you guys dinner. I’m not an alcoholic. Thanks so much.”

Later in the day, around 5:45, The Partner and I are sitting at the kitchen table eating. There are people outside and it’s going good seeing as how folks have been drinking since 9am. Then some dude says, “I’m going to piss in this plant.”

The Partner and I look at each other. We leap and race each other to the door, as we’re the only folks on our side to have plants outside.

I get there first, throw open the screen door, only to see some skinny drunk dude pissing into my fucking ficus benjamina.

“WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE? YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT!”

The guy stuffs himself back into his pants. Looks shocked.

The Partner starts in, “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOUR THINKING?”

I’m all, “YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT! There’s a fucking FENCE there, fucking piss on that!”

He’s all, “It’s only water!” and goes to the fence to finish peeing.

I’m all, “It’s only water!? YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT! Let me piss on you, asshole, it’s only water!”

Yeah, the fucking students are back.

Jeff, I miss you.

So this envelope from the wonderful county of Porter contained an “Infraction Deferral Agreement”, which reads as something you ABSOLUTELY MUST ABIDE BY, in scary legalese, listing off numerous sections of Indiana Code. It freaked me out so much so that I called the Porter County Superior Court and was all, “AM I BEING SUMMONED TO COURT?”

Turns out this “agreement” is totally optional, wherein if I agree to pay Porter County $249 (ON TOP OF the $123 speeding fine–$372 for those lacking the maths), and refrain from incurring any more “moving violations” for one year, they will very graciously “hold off” on reporting my infraction to the BMV, thus saving me from getting points on my driver’s license.

Do you believe this fucking racket?

My first-ever speeding ticket was again a 21-mph-over no-no, although that time I was hauling ass through a park area apparently, and my county only dragged about $90 out of me to not report it.

Two hundred and forty-nine flippin dollars?

I called up the BMV, talked to two ladies who were not at all qualified to work at the BMV (“I think it’s 3 or 4 points on your license,” and “Maybe it’s a year to come off your record?” were their responses), was then directed to call the main call center down in Indianapolis when I (amazingly calmly) asked “And who would could actually answer my questions?” The gal at the call center said it’d be 4 points and they won’t come off for two years. I asked what would happen if I got another ticket. She said if it was high enough to get more points, I’d have to take safety courses and retake the written exam.

Porter County I hate you. I got lost in you once, trying to get over to Hammond, and I didn’t like you because of that. This only adds to it.

Looks like it’s speed limit-abiding driving for me for the next two years.

I struggled to contain myself.

What can you expect from a group with a song entitled “Sperm Receptacle“?

As I glanced around the crowd, women comprised at least half the attendance. In the first group to perform, The Crazy Monkeys, there are two women members. Even with this, they played mainly stereotypical female roles (ditsy girlfriend, girlfriend/wife who gets pregnant–whoops!, etc.).

There wasn’t much of substance in either performance.

Why not try some satirical work, or lampooning, of current political events instead of rehashing the same old bullshit from those who did it better, the first time around?

I’m so happy I didn’t pay for any of this shit.

1. No spam filter
2. They take too fucking long to deliver packages.

   Really. 4 days to get it here from Indianapolis—a 1 hour drive? Really?

I don’t think I can even finish the series now.

Throwing a psychic into the mix does not make the movie X-File-y. Why was it so disjointed? Why were they living together? All was forgiven?? And why was it so religious??

What the fuck.