Ame and I don’t live in a house just yet, but we still have neighbors. Technically, they’re fellow tenants of the “apartment community,” but it’s all the same really. Just like the general population, most people fall below the radar and go unnoticed and undetected, but there are those that grab your attention and sometimes you feel bad for not having paid a nickel first for staring. I usually catch these exhibits in their natural habitat while I’m walking the dog.

In the next building over, either there’s a new resident or someone has a new boyfriend. Whatever the case, someone is the too-proud-to-realize-they’re-ridiculous owner of a tricked out black SUV. Whenever they pull into the parking spot, they, presumably to corral their booty-call, honk their horn to signal their arrival. The most horrible, slightly off-key, and off-meter rendition of the most famous phrase from the theme music of The Godfather blasts the parking lot. It must be hilarious to play Speak Softly Love because they keep doing it again and again.

Then there’s Blue Mustang Guy. I’ve figured out he lives on the third floor of my building, but Blue Mustang Guy pays a little extra per month for a covered parking spot for his tuned-up early-model blue Ford Mustang. He is out there nearly every day, during the day, tinkering with it, adjusting it, revving it up, and, while I’ve never seen him do it but wouldn’t put it past him, rubbing it with a diaper. One of these days I’m going to leave a gift as if it were from the car itself on his doorstep or on the hood. What is the gift? One of those freaky muffler attachments you install on the exhaust pipe so you can have sex with your car.

Ame and I live in a pretty nice apartment complex too. I don’t get why we have these kinds of freaks – especially car nuts. We’re moving in the next coming weeks, so we won’t see these freaks anymore, but I have no doubt we’ll be seeing all new ones.

In short. Not worth the time.

I never liked you, Rodriguez, and Tarantino: you’re on probation.

The end.