I read an article on news.com.au the other day about how terrible it is that we don’t know our neighbour’s anymore. The author of this propaganda suggested that the reasons behind this triumph were because of how we live our lives now. You know, longer hours, more internets (that’s my game!) and less talking to real human beings, who let’s face it, can be major dicks at the best of times.
After reading this article, I failed to agree with her. I’m not friends with any of my neighbours and don’t ever plan to be. Why? Is it because I’m a secret recluse who has nothing much to say to anyone? Maybe. Or is it because in my past experience, even the nicest neighbours often turn out to be the biggest bunch of assholes you’ve ever met.
Take for instance where I live now. The (idiot) couple downstairs appear to have absolutely no idea that when they park outside their apartment, it also blocks the access to my front door. In fact, they seem so oblivious that they even park two cars there sometimes. Or sometimes they even have friends and family over and the whole driveway is then littered with black Mazda 3‘s like they’re having some kind of mob meeting. WTF?
I haven’t approached them yet for a number of reasons. No. I prefer to stew on it from the safety of my apartment, scheming, bitching and plotting but never actually doing anything to solve the problem. Why? Because that’s how I roll.
In my defense, I called the Body Corporate and they said they’d breach them if I made an official complaint. I told them I’d think about it because I might actually be able to be a grown up person and deal with it face to face. Emphasis on the ‘might’ part.
Essentially though, I’m gutless. That’s a given. But it’s not without precedent. Here is a list of my shitty neighbour’s and why no one should ever have to be friends with the weirdos that live next door. Ever.
The married couple upstairs. Nice enough people and she even worked in the local video store, which seemed really cool at the time. They seemed fun and in love, except when she’d go to work.
When she went to work, a blonde lady would pull up outside the unit block 10 minutes later. She’d go upstairs and if you ran down to the back of the apartment (which we NEVER did), you could hear them boning so loudly that it echoed across the car park at the back of the unit block. What a swell guy.
Eventually he even started cheating on the mistress too and by the time his wife caught on, it was a huge mess. Wife moved out and a mistress moved in. Not sure which mistress though. Blondes all look the same to me.
This was a pretty kooky apartment building down the end of a lane way that seemed to attract everyone. It didn’t matter if you were a raving lunatic or the CEO of a tiny little company no one had ever heard of, you could be found living in this place.
It had an awesome ambience and felt not unlike Melrose Place, minus the pool. There was singing shower guy – a guy that well, sang in the shower for about 2 hours at a time. You could leave and come back hours later and he’d still be in the shower, singing away.
Or the girl that lived next door to me who kept weird hours. I only knew that because she’d come clomping along the balcony at any hour talking loudly on her mobile phone. She’d stand outside my door every time and take her shoes off, always managing to stumble, crash and flail into it like a drunk polar bear with a gun to its head.
What a beautiful little apartment this was. Views of the city and a seriously old school charm, tucked below street level in a really nice part of town.
Except for the boarding house next door and the guy that lived in it. We didn’t even notice it at first until one fateful evening the outside spotlight on. He screamed out the window that if we didn’t turn it off, he was going to come down and beat the shit out of us. Heart-warming stuff.
Every night he would sit in his apartment and screech ‘EAT IT. SUCK IT. FUCK IT’ over and over again. As time went on, the whole situation just got really out of hand. It became so bad that we were convinced he was having sex with a dead body. I don’t even want to tell you how we came to that conclusion but we called the cops on that premise.
Turns out he wasn’t. We know that cause he spent the next 4 hours (and I’m not even exaggerating) in the shower crying about how the pigs ruined his high.
All good reasons not to go befriending my neighbours. Especially because watching from a distance is so much more entertaining.