Tuesday, October 16, 2007

City living.

So the Homeless Guy that sometimes lives on the steps of the house next door (I've mentioned him before, but I'm too tired to go in the Blog Way Back Machine and find that entry and link it - I have reached a new level of lazy) has been lurking around for seriously like two weeks. TWO WEEKS. Everytime I let the dog out to pee, he's there. Everytime I come to and from work (which totals four times a day, I go home for lunch), he's there. Now, I'm into the random pleasantry now and then, but it just gets to be a bit much EVERY SINGLE TIME I LEAVE MY APARTMENT.

So he's nice, sure, and he tries to be helpful to the neighbors when he can, but I think everyone's patience is wearing a little thin. Take the guy across the street, who was carrying an entire washing machine into his gangway the other day. When Homeless Man tottered over to say he'd help, the guy turned on him and said, "I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP. DO NOT FOLLOW ME INTO THIS GANGWAY."

Ok, so what am I really pissed about? Homeless man has begun to comment on my parallel parking abilities. Now, I'm not the best parker in the world, but I'm certainly not the worst on this block. There's a girl with a green Honda CR-V that I've raged about on this blog before whose waaaay worse (again, too lazy to link to my rant about her and the Post-It note I almost left on her windshield but then felt too guilty). Also, Steve and I have gone through, seriously, like ten tires in the last two months. We are down on our Tire Luck. So if I'm parked a little far from the curb, hey, so be it. I'm saving some cash in the meantime.

But today? Today he reached a new low. He was sitting there, blitzed on his usual 40 of Icehouse at 5 p.m., and he's sitting there, contemplating why I'm parked so far away from the curb.

"I don't get it. You had so much room in the back."

"I could have helped you get in."

"You just needed to cut it a little closer."

"You know, maybe you're just a bad parker."


The last one threw me over the edge. I mumbled something like, "Yeah, well, you know," and then I mumbled, "ya fucking douche" to myself as I unlocked the door.

I guess my parents did raise me right, because I was able to hold myself back from screaming what I really wanted to say, which was "DUDE, YOU'RE FUCKING HOMELESS, YOU DON'T LIVE IN A HOME. YOU SIT ON THE STEPS OF SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE ALL DAY DRINKING THE SHITTIEST BEER EVER. DON'T FUCKING CRITIQUE MY PARALLEL PARKING, HOMELESS MAN."

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