"You've got some hate mail from the City of Scottsdale," says Molly as she walks through the door carrying the mail. She drops the letter at my feet on the ottoman, but I ignore it. I'm busy tending to my zombie farm on my iphone. The hate mail can wait - they will still hate me just as much in a few hours.
Moments later, I decide I'm starving. Molly wants to cook some healthy chicken and vegetable bullshit, so I order a pizza. She wanted me to promise never to complain about feeling fat again, but I promise nothing. I will eat my pizza and complain about my fatness. It is the circle of life.
After the pizza is ordered, I grab a sheet of paper from the printer and an angry sharpie and go to town composing a hate letter of my own - still having not tended to the hate mail sitting on the ottoman... The letter I'm writing is to whomever owns the ugly red pickup truck that has been parked and immobile right in front of my house - the red pickup truck with a rickety old flatbed trailer in tow - the trailer with the Port-o-Potty laying on its side and sorta half-covered with a tattered tarp.
That's the one.
The contents of the letter I wrote went something like this:
This truck hasn't moved in months. If you are the owner, move it somewhere far away. Every house in this neighborhood has a two car garage. Either park this in your driveway or your garage. We are tired of driving by this eyesore every day. If you don't remove this Port-o-Potty transport from the area, we will have it towed away by the city as an abandoned vehicle. Signed - The Neighborhood.
I suppose I should've taken a picture of it before sticking it under the windshield wiper. I'm giving them a week or two before having that thing hauled away.
After that, I opened the hate mail from the city. Apparently, they don't like the dead lawn, garbage, debris, dead foliage, and random junk piled in front of my old house. They are threatening to fine me 250 bucks if I don't bring my dead lawn and plants and trees back to life and haul away the crap by Christmas Eve. I sent an email to my case handler letting them know the bank has been foreclosing on the place for months and that I've moved out.
I wish the bank would just fucking hurry up and foreclose on me at this point. I gave up. They won (or lost depending on how you look at it). Maybe I'll just have a yard sale and pay someone to smash up the bricks that make up the front walk and spread it over the front yard and call it landscaping gravel. Maybe I'll rent the place to a hobo in exchange for lawn maintenance.