The neighbors to the right of me are meth chemists. Or producers of pornography. Or the soulless killers of fluffy bunny rabbits. But whatever they happen to truly be, they cannot for the survival of their very souls (or the abyss of those aforementioned missing souls) rent the upper apartment of their duplex.
I moved in across the fence from them, oh, four years ago. At that time they had one tenant and that tenant was a rather beefy single mother of a few tiny tots. She and her kids moved out maybe a year after my arrival to the neighborhood (an arrival lacking completely any "Welcome to the neighborhood, mind the bodily fluid secreting drunks" Post-it noted tin of brownies from any damned one of the people on the block - or even just the Post-It shoved into the crack of a riser on the porch steps). This heavy blonde woman with kids had bought a home of her own and got the heck out of Dodge.
These bunny killers have not been able to keep anyone in that vacant apartment for more than six months.
(but they do have these awesome kooky flowers on one side of their house, as pictured below)
In the three years since Blonde With Kids left, there have been only two occupants and one of those doesn't count on account of because - while he and his girlfriend did purchase a sofa from me at the thrift store and while they did move it into the apartment - they moved it right back out again less than a week later.
I have a short list of theories as to the whys of this utter inability to rent out that apartment. They are, in no particular order:
I mention all of this because the adorable piercer/tattoo artist of the parlor I frequent - the one with the sugar skulls on her forearms and the glinting facial piercings? - she came by to look at that habitually vacant apartment with her boyfriend. I casually looked out of the living room window and there she was, holding onto the rent forms with one hand and saying good-bye to father Bunny Killer with the other.
I wanted to scream like a maniac out of the window at her and her beloved, but there was still a reasonable doubt that it was indeed her.
But, if it was her, even from far away and with that weird looking-down-and-over-from-the-second-story angle - she is so adorable.
I moved in across the fence from them, oh, four years ago. At that time they had one tenant and that tenant was a rather beefy single mother of a few tiny tots. She and her kids moved out maybe a year after my arrival to the neighborhood (an arrival lacking completely any "Welcome to the neighborhood, mind the bodily fluid secreting drunks" Post-it noted tin of brownies from any damned one of the people on the block - or even just the Post-It shoved into the crack of a riser on the porch steps). This heavy blonde woman with kids had bought a home of her own and got the heck out of Dodge.
These bunny killers have not been able to keep anyone in that vacant apartment for more than six months.
(but they do have these awesome kooky flowers on one side of their house, as pictured below)
In the three years since Blonde With Kids left, there have been only two occupants and one of those doesn't count on account of because - while he and his girlfriend did purchase a sofa from me at the thrift store and while they did move it into the apartment - they moved it right back out again less than a week later.
I have a short list of theories as to the whys of this utter inability to rent out that apartment. They are, in no particular order:
- The rent is astronomically high, even for this city's standards.
I know that my co-workers' neighbor just three houses down the street is asking for $900 a month. There are some places around the city demanding no less than a grand, and while I pay only $550 I highly doubt that the Bunny Killers are anywhere near that number.
- The Bunny Killers are impossible.
They live on site, in the lower apartment with their three teenage children, two dogs and whatever else might be stashed inside the place. They throw parties, waste hundreds of dollars filling a pool only they are permitted to use (which they hardly ever do) and for Wisconsinites they aren't very friendly at all. I mean, I live so close to them that I can count the sun damaged creases on their faces and yet they never so much as twitch a facial muscle in recognition of my presence. Granted, they could be lovely people - as lovely as bunny killers can be.
- The upper apartment is haunted by the gruesome ghosts of a grisly murder-suicide.
If that's the case, why the heck am I not living there?
I mention all of this because the adorable piercer/tattoo artist of the parlor I frequent - the one with the sugar skulls on her forearms and the glinting facial piercings? - she came by to look at that habitually vacant apartment with her boyfriend. I casually looked out of the living room window and there she was, holding onto the rent forms with one hand and saying good-bye to father Bunny Killer with the other.
I wanted to scream like a maniac out of the window at her and her beloved, but there was still a reasonable doubt that it was indeed her.
But, if it was her, even from far away and with that weird looking-down-and-over-from-the-second-story angle - she is so adorable.
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