Monday, November 28, 2011

Fight-Club Boy At Door

Last night after 5 hours of music blaring through the walls, I finally went over at 11:45pm to the neighbor's to tell him to PLEASE BE QUIET, PLEASE.

He came to the door in a towel, said sorry, quieted down after.

This evening, got a knock on my door. It was Fight-Club Boy. Drunk to the gills, slurping from a hard-lemonade tall-boy that he spilled all over the place, with another in a plastic bag. Wearing an embroidered apron.

He was sorry for last night. He couldn't tell when he was loud or not. He could tell from talking to me now that I wasn't a cunt, though he thought I was a cunt last night.

I told him I appreciated his coming over to talk. I was sorry for being rude by coming to his door last night. By the way, what was that "Fight Club" shit going on at his apartment last month? The "friend" sounded like a psycho.

He said his "friend" was a faggot. When I told him I was gay: "Oh, you're gay? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

I said his "friend" didn't sound like a "faggot" but rather like a straight guy trying to drum up his butchness, and that his inciting my neighbor to fight was disturbing and weird, and that I'd felt like sliding a note under his door telling him to avoid that guy!

My neighbor thanked me for caring. He drunkly hugged me, twice. Then, listening to the sounds of my TV beyond my doorway, said he heard his own voice coming from my TV. When I said I hoped not, since I'd been watching "The Real Housewives of Atlanta" and which Atlanta housewife he might be, he acted a bit embarrassed.

Folks, if I'm murdered in the next few weeks or months, it was this neighbor!

Murder aside: You know what's good about having a man around? The above kind of thing filtered out. By this time, I've seen enough of it. I can handle it. But... I'm tired of "handling it." I think perhaps straight men can handle "faggot" and "cunt" and drunken hugs from strangers and spilled drinks on the doorstep...

But I personally, sans man, am tired of having to psyche myself up to all of it. At 46, I shouldn't even be around this type of thing any more. (If I'd had protectors, I wouldn't even have had to have been around this at 26.)

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