The accident really messed things up for us. We definitely weren't prepared to have to buy another car only 11 months after getting the Kia. Unfortunately, that's the boat we're in. I wish I would have saved a piece of the car so I could track down the moron that pulled out in front of us and beat him over the head with it.Now thanks to his astoundingly incompetent driving skills, this is what happened. Well, this and Kelly's herniated disc. We got the car paid off through insurance, and are pursuing legal action for her injuries, but we're back to square one. No car. On Thursday the other driver's insurance informed us the car was a total loss.
Meanwhile, Captain Oblivious got off with some body damage to his truck.
I have run across a bit of stunningly good luck as a bit of this accident, but I'll get into that another time. We still need to find a car on the quick and cheap.
As if this wasn't enough to deal with, I was on my way out the door the other morning to get some things out of the truck of the rental car, and found a notice stuck in our door. Someone had filed a noise complaint about us, citing 'running and jumping, very loud.'
This someone would have been the crackwhore downstairs and her rotating band of lovers. The same one I called the police on about a month ago for blaring obnoxious rap music at full volume at three o'clock in the morning.
The same one who refused to answer the door for the cops for over a half hour either because the crack had incapacitated her or she simply needed time to hide it.
How do I know she's a crackwhore? Well, let's see, there's the gaunt appearance, sunken in eyes and cheeks, parkinson's-like shakes, constant scratching and bobble-headedness for starters. That and the endless supply of thugz coming up to her apartment all hours of the night.
The ones that slam the door over and over and over and argue about 'day rimz' in the landing till 4 in the morning while the telltale odors of a virtual pharmacy of illicit narcotics waft up and into my bedroom window.
Other than that, I really have no evidence. We don't live in the ghetto; they just think we do.
Well, ranting aside, I called our business office and bitched that I'd called THEM and never received a response, and then was forced to call the police...TWICE...on these neighbors.
Somehow she had the balls to complain that my two year old son likes to periodically run across our paper thin floor? Uh uh. I'm not cool with that.
Especially when her two year old spawn, who likely was comprised of the sperm of at least nine men of varying ethnicities, none of whom she remembers, wails ad infinitum while they scream at her to shut the fuck up at top volume on a pretty much constant basis, in addition to everything else I just mentioned.
Luckily, the girls in the business office have some common sense and nullified our 'warning' as nothing more than a retaliation.
Queen rockho had better be on notice that I'm not going to take that crap. If one of her men so much as farts too loud, I'll bring the 5-0 down on her ass again like a ton of bricks. And maybe this time, they'll catch a whiff.
