The guys that are apparently going to rent our place next year are complete yarfnorts. They're classic Somerville trash, with their fake tans and their sunglasses that rest atop their heads on even the cloudiest of days. They're here right now and I just had to hide this window while one of them came in and asked me for the 142nd time, "Hey, buddy, is there anything wrong with this place? Why ah you leavin'? It's alright, right, right?"
They keep complaining to me about how hard it's going to be to get their 53" television in here, and I have to forcibly keep my mouth shut so I don't blurt out, "You have a 53" television. I hate you. I don't care how you get the motherfucker in here."
Another just came in my room and snooped around while I was pretending to do other things. "Hey, buddy, you gottalot a books, huh?"
I think I won't mention to them the fact that the house is slowly falling apart, or that the dogs in the neighborhood bark for no reason for several hours a day. I'm DEFINITELY not telling them about my arch-nemesis, the ice cream truck that comes here every day between April and October, playing that same ungodly and incessant "Pop goes the weasel" ringer.
Last summer I got so fed up with it that I actually leaned out my window with a megaphone (the story behind why I would have such equipment in my possession is not for public consumption) and pleaded, "For the love of everything holy, please turn off that Goddamned song!" A few months ago I actually opened my windows and blared some Jovi back at them, Noriega-style.
Have fun here, gents. Or rather, have fun here, buddies...