Fat Chick & Monkeyboy

My home isn't just my proverbial castle. It is also my workplace. And when I'm at work (i.e. playing video games or making fun of them), I don't want to be disturbed. People disturb me. And so do pants. This is my home, this is where I live and this is where my wang shall never be constricted by pants. In fact, we do have a rule around the house, which says that my significant other has to make a phone call and warn me 30 minutes before she brings any visitors. Otherwise, I will not be wearing pants. Which doesn't bother me in the slightest.

One potential threat to my pantsless workplace castle freedom is the existence of neighbours. There is a flat right on top of our own and over the years, our living experience has varied greatly with each set of upstairs inhabitants. The current pair would be Fat Chick and Monkeyboy. Fat Chick probably has a real name, but I choose to call her that, because she has no other apparent qualities. She's about as entertaining to talk to as a bottle of 3in1 Shampoo and even less pleasant to look at. The first thing that jumped into my mind whenever I see her is, "Wow! She's FAT!" So there you go.

She used to live with a strange creature I like to call Monkeyboy. By their loud arguments I derive he must be old enough to earn money, but he has the voice and looks of a 12 year old boy and he rides around on one of those little monkey bikes. It's what kids do around here: They wear their pants around their ankles and expose their butts like somebody in jail willing to sell it for a bowl of soup. And they ride around on shitty miniature bicycles.

Fat Chick & Monkeyboy were the most tolerable neighbours we've had so far. Which doesn't mean I don't hate them. I really do. But after living with a dipshit, who practiced with his guitar at 3 in the morning and a bunch of stoners, who made the entire block smell of pot, this latest couple of mutants were a welcome change. Sure, their absolute lack of talent didn't stop them from singing at the top of their lungs all day and listening to them playing their shitty old N64 games at maximum volume until midnight each day wasn't the most pleasant experience I could ever imagine, but it was tolerable. Most of all, they left me the hell alone. Eventually, Monkeyboy left Fat Chick and never showed up anymore and Fat Chick has been evading me ever since she had a nice long stare at my wang through the living room window. I didn't force that stupid old cow to plant her fucking flowers right in front of my damn window and I'm not gonna put some fucking pants on, just because she's hanging around outside. So there's that.

Sadly, the days of peace are about to come to an end. Monkeyboy came back this morning and the Bear and I woke up to one of the more entertaining upstairs arguments. "You're disgusting", I heard him shout in his 12 year old voice. I was really getting my hopes up there! Thought maybe she took a massive crap in the litter box or something. But then he said she's disgusting when it comes to money. What a stupid choice of words! You can be disgusting with food, fetishes, kinky habits, but money? Lame!
He spent the next 20 minutes shouting at her for wanting all the money back he spent on their bills, food and every other thing. I wasn't exactly dying to know all the details, but it's a nice, hot summer day, all the windows are open and he was beeping and squeaking with all the noise he could make, so it was rather difficult to ignore.

He was also slamming doors with the rage of an angry kitten. Or maybe they were playing ping pong the whole time, but her screaming at him to stop slamming doors after every gentle 'tink' suggests he must have been raging with all his teenage might. And then she puked her guts out. Here's a fun fact for ya: When you pour a liquid down the drain of your sink or your tub around here, i.e. water or vomit, it doesn't just disappear the way you might know it if you live in a country where people know shit about plumbing. It flows through an outdoor pipe along the wall of the house and gathers in a sinkhole in the backyard, which happens to be right in front of our bedroom window. It's a very cool thing to wake up to: We could hear Fat Chick cough and gargle upstairs and all the puke came down through the pipe downstairs. Whee!

I don't think they'll be living here for much longer. Fat Chick's mail has been piling up in the corridor for a few weeks now. Angry letters. Somehow you can always tell payment reminders and bills from regular mail. They look official. Threatening. Maybe it's just how they tend to come with big, red exclamation marks on them or how nobody dares pick them up, but there's a bit of a scary aura about them.
Yes, I know. None of my business and all that. But come on. Those fucking letters are there, right in our corridor. And it's a bit difficult to avoid hearing all those arguments. And the puke. Might as well take pleasure in it. Because that's what we did. We held hands, looked at each other, laughed for a while and went back to sleep with a happy sigh.

I wonder what the new neighbours are gonna be like. And whether we get to nick another cool high-tech microwave oven, when the current neighbours disappear without a word of warning or paying any of their bills. I just hope they're gonna leave me alone. Well... I guess I can always show my dick if they piss me off.

-Cat