I’ve always wanted a neighbor I could call my best friend. She would come over most mornings and drink coffee with me. I’d stick some bread in the toaster and we’d have a little toast and talk about everything we needed to do that day. Sometimes we’d go shopping and I’d buy a gorgeous hat that was really expensive. Then we’d talk about how I’d have to hide it for a while so Ricky wouldn’t see it and yell at me for spending too much money. At night, when my gorgeous Hispanic husband was singing at his nightclub, and her fat, bald husband was watching The Fight, she’d come over and we’d knit and gossip and scheme a way for me to get into Ricky’s act. She would be the one person who knows I’m talented enough to perform at his nightclub. Yes, she would understand how Ricky would be jealous of the attention I would receive if I were to sing and dance at his club just one measly night. We would have such a good time together; no matter what kind of trouble found us, we’d always find a way out of the situation.
You, my nasty, greasy, skanky, split-end-queen, food-frying, chain-smoking scum of a neighbor, are not her. Finally, I am able to say “Ta Ta” to you and will be hauling ass out of the duplex this Friday. I hope I never run into you anywhere on this planet. It’s unlikely that I will, though, considering I don’t attend the local wrestling matches. I hope you find an anecdote for superglue and manage someday to pry your stinky boyfriend’s hand off that Dr. Pepper can I’ve never seen him without. Otherwise, I wish you the most disgusting, obnoxious, foul-smelling neighbor to move into my side of the duplex. And may this new neighbor own a St. Bernard that enjoys nothing better than to make his twice-daily deposit on your back porch.