It has been months since the Boston Pops moved away. The apartment stayed vacant for a few months. I dreaded each day when my crappy landlords would showcase the empty abode to some random and probably criminal record holding, ruffian. Who is to know what kind of people they tried to get to squat next door to me. If it isn’t clear, you can obviously tell I am not too thrilled about my current living situation. I miss the Boston Pops. They were great neighbors and they did protect me from the evilness of Claudia (Dead Zombie Wife, the Ghost of Carlos, and the other unseen force determined to ruin me and rape me of all my life. All things end. Nothing last and while having an empty place I was able to run amok was fun and risqué, the old place couldn’t stay vacant forever. If it did, who would be there to ruin our children with the temptation of drugs, sex, and total anarchy? No one that’s who. These apartments have literally gone to shit. Worst place imaginable. I don’t think it’s in my contract/lease with these a-holes about talking smack on the place but I don’t care. I won’t mention where I live you but when I do move out (which is happening), I will unleash hell and explain how shady, horrible, and dangerous it is to live where I currently live. For now, the story about my new neighbor and the final straw that broke the camel’s back.
The new lady moved in. She literally snuck inside without me ever noticing. She is an older lady. Don’t think too hard and imagine an elderly lady with cats, frail bones, and a bad case of glaucoma. She is fine. You can’t even tell she’s pushing 70. I might be wrong. She might not be 70. She might be older or I could possibly be very wrong and she could be only 50 and the child she tends to is not her grandchild but her own offspring. Grandma Judy’s age is a mystery to me. I’m sure the strange phenomenon of the sliding rocks in the desolate desert will be solved well before her age is. Her age is well hidden and I have some odd feeling (mainly cause I live in a Hell dimension) that her age will be unleashed the same was the Nazis let out the scary ghost people for the Ark of the Covenant.
Damn, afterlife! You scary!
I wasn’t worried about her when she first decided to use the empty place next door to me like her own personal retirement villa. I dislike old people. Not all old people. Just really the ones who annoy and smell like death and Old Country Buffet. Old people do smell. It’s been scientifically proven. But her smell isn’t coming off of her but from her cooking. She cooks often. I cannot describe the smell. I want to. I really want to figure out what the hell she is cooking all the time. I swear it never changes. It’s always the same smell coming from the kitchen. It seeps its way into the laundry room and after I finish washing my undergarments, the nasty, old person cooking smell lingers on my freshly, dried shirts. I wonder if work notices the smell and they are just too nice to mention the odor coming off my ironed and work stained shirts.
I am not trying to make it sound like Grandma Judy is a foul-smelling woman. She isn’t really. It’s her cooking and I am sure if the laundry room smells the way it does, her place has to be even smellier. I’ve been in her place once. Kind of creepy if you ask me. She is a pack rat. Give her some time and she’ll be one of those people on TLC’s Hoarders. She’ll remind you of the crazy cat lady on The Simpsons and a little pinch of Honey Boo Boo’s mom. You’ll need an excavating team in about four months to free her from the gadgets and gizmos, and her whosits and whatsits galore. I was in place a few months ago. She was complaining about something our great landlords won’t fix. I go inside to see if I can fix it. I was already sure I wasn’t going to be able to. Not because it was probably unfixable but because I lack knowledge in the field of mechanics. Seriously, I do. I took the ASVAB test and I scored pretty well. I was told I can do whatever I want but don’t try mechanics cause I suck at it. Scored low. True story.
Anyway, I am inside Grandma Judy’s apartment. It already reeks of old people. It has that feel. My eyes wandered a bit and I spotted a bowl of that cheap, butter mint candy that my grandparents and your grandparents buy. They stockpile it like the world is about to end. Aside from the candy, I see yarn and thread and baskets full of needlework that she’ll probably never get to, not because she is older than dirt but because she is too busy caring for the hell-hound of a granddaughter she claims and tells me that she is.
sweet as corn in a Nebraskan summer.
No effin’ clue what that means. I’ll get to the granddaughter in a bit. I need to talk more about the craziness in her apartment. Grandma Judy has been in the place since June. It was September when I entered her house. Maybe entering her house is a bad thing. No telling what else I agreed to when I step inside her smelly apartment. I leave. Leaving, I notice there is no computer. She did have a typewriter. Yes. It sat on a desk that was cluttered with plants, paper, and useless junk. Believe me. It’s useless, even to her. I don’t have to ask. Her TV sat on a wire stand that looked more like it be more useful for plants and photos of her dead World War I husband. Instead, a tiny black and white television sat all alone. I shouldn’t go and talk about the woman’s possessions like it’s uncanny and not normal for someone to not have a computer or a TV the size of Verne Troyer. I was just shocked really. Her life is a mystery to me. Makes me wonder what awaits me if I stay here. But I am not staying here. I am getting the hell out.
I guess I lost and finally let these a-hole below me and Grandma Judy win. I have always said that when you live in an apartment you are bound to hear noises and you will have to deal with screaming kids, noisy neighbors, ghosts, dead zombies wives, and lazy laundriers. I know all about it. I dealt with it. I wasn’t going to give in and let The Ghost of Carlos win and run me out. You’re a effin’ ghost, dude! Go towards the light and take your damn ghost children with you. I know Carlos isn’t a ghost. I know his name isn’t really Carlos but that doesn’t matter anymore. Did I tell you that I have never met the guy? Been here for almost three years and I have seen or talked to him. I’ve heard him. I am hearing him right now. He’s ghostly whaling at his kids in some Hispanic ghost language. He’s not the reason I am high tailing it out of here. I wasn’t going to move at all. But I was at home doing what I do when I am off – a whole lot of nothing. I am in the living room and Grandma Judy is watching that demon spawn of a granddaughter (or whatever she is). I hear a thud. Then another. Then another.
thud…thud..thud…thud…thud…
That goes on for 30 straight minutes. A ball against the wall for 30 minutes. Does Grandma Judy think about me or maybe how effin’ annoying it is? No! She let’s that little brat continue 
being a bother. No wonder she watches her. I bet the mother ships her off to you not because she works but because she knows how much of a brat her daughter is and that this “phase” will not be outgrown. Kudos, Grandma Judy! Your granddaughter is going to be a bitch in high school. I snapped and said to myself I am going to move. Will I move? You bet. Next year I will be a Cornhusker. I will tell Missouri to eff off and finally escape the chaos of this apartment. No more zombie wife. No more ghosts, witches, chain-smoking cryptkeepers, and no more Grandma Judy. All these stories will come to an end. I don’t even have the passion to write about Judy being good or bad. I don’t have any desire to keep the charade of the Dead Zombie Wife up. Grandma Judy killed that. She is a plain, boring neighbor with a foul stench and a soon to be bitch for a granddaughter. I guess the legend of the Dead Zombie Wife ends here. Grandma Judy killed that and she killed my desire to keep living here. Maybe she is a gift from God. Maybe I can finish this story off with her and finally put the DZW story to a close. She is my savior. She used her powers of good to free me from this place to give me the courage to get out before something bad happens. But I don’t know. I just can’t keep doing this. It’s over. The story, the legend, and the mystery is dead.
Unless…it follows me to Nebraska.
pitweston
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