I get a little carried away by made up stories sometimes. I mean, sometimes I can totally help it...sometimes they just happen around me and I get sucked into them...but from time to time, I have to have these moments where I think "Wait, did that really happen, or did I make that up?" I'm not sure that's healthy...but I like to think it's all for love of the game.
Case in point, and what inspired me to remember to write in this damn blog: I pass a house every morning on my way to work that I'm totally convinced is the home of a domestic, suburban drug dealer. I had to ask myself on this fine morning..."is this ACTUALLY a drug dealer's house...like...do I KNOW that, or did I make that up?" I made it up. I remembered quickly. BUT...I have good reasons to believe it true!
1--there are so many different cars in front of the house in the mornings when I go to work at 8...let's be real...850ish. No family has 11 different cars unless they're statement cars, like Cameros or Minis or something. These were 11 family cars--station wagons SUVs, sedans (no minivans...this is still Point Loma).
2--there's always someone coming and going in the 8-9 hour.
Man, I really thought I had way more reasons that that. And those really aren't even strong reasons. I'm rethinking this.
Ok, HERE'S a better case in point: once, I thought our back neighbor was killed by her son, and her body was cut up and stored in the fridge.
Speaking of fridges, there is little I hate more than someone spelling it "frig." That's stupid. I don't even care that it's probably the better way, because of it's "refrigerator" and not "refridgerator."
So our back neighbor Linda (name changed for privacy purposes) left us a note one glorious February day letting us know that she was leaving town, and her son Asshole (name changed for privacy purposes) would be house sitting for her. Asshole was 20, so too young to be hitting up the bars, but also very, very interested in hitting up the bars.
We were hoping it would be a smooth transition, but unfortuantely, Asshole and his asshole friends used our back house as "the bar for 20 year-olds would get kicked out of real bars", a place to experiment with coke at 3 a.m., and a wrestling studio (is this the appropriate place to use "dojo"?? I'm pretty sure studio isn't appropriate). This led to many pajama-clad-confrontations from our home to theirs. This ALSO led to several well worded text messages from cousin to Linda. At first, she'd reply, apologize, and we'd have a few moments peace. However, by May (still Linda-less), she'd stopped replying to any messages. It was during this time that we noticed that Asshole was driving Linda's car, which had been parked in our alley all Spring. We also learned, via landlord, that rent had been being paid with nameless cashiers checks for months.
We asked Asshole more than once how Linda was doing, hinting subtly, then not-so-subtly, then outright asking when she'd be home. The answers were more and more sketchy--"Summer" turned into "Soon" which turned into "I'm not really sure..." and by the end of August, the answer was clear:
LINDA WAS DEAD.
And why was Asshole so shady about it? That answer was also clear:
ASSHOLE HAD KILLED LINDA.
And how did I determine that he cut up her body parts and stored them in the fridge?
BECAUSE ONE NIGHT, I WAS OUT BACK GETTING MY LAUNDRY, AND IT WAS LATE, AND I LOOKED INTO THE WINDOW OF LINDA'S KITCHEN, AND ASSHOLE WAS IN THERE, AND HE'D CHANGED THE REGULAR LIGHT BULB OUT FOR A RED LIGHT BULB, SO THE ENTIRE KITCHEN WAS BATHED IN CREEPY RED LIGHT, AND HE WAS JUST SITTING THERE.
It made so much sense.
I mean, it made sense until Linda came back in November, and told us that she was working all year on the East Coast, because she was a decorator, and they were more "her style" out there.
But for about a year, I was pretty convinced that we were living next door to a killer.
That's what I just decided to write about. Aren't you happy I'm back to to this blog?