I have the worst luck with neighbors. Not all of them, but for the most part I have never lived anywhere without an epically fucked up next door neighbor.
When I was little, we lived in North Carolina next door to a motorcycle camp. Enough said.
On the street I grew up on, the house across from mine caught on fire at least 5 times. Their excuse - just really bad at cooking. I'm really bad at cooking, but I have yet to have something actually catch fire.
But the neighbors became increasingly weirder as I got older...
In my first apartment, a seemingly nice young couple lived next door. One day my roommate mentioned that she thought there was an awful lot of people coming and going from their place. About a month later, I came home from work for lunch, only to find neighbor girl in complete hysterics. Apparently the boyfriend had been selling drugs out of the apartment, and was arrested.
Even worse, poor neighbor girl was from Alaska, had zero family in the lower 48, and was now faced with dropping out of school to either work or move back to Alaska. Worser than worse, a couple of days later she fell asleep at the wheel, totaled her car, broke both of her legs and moved back to Alaska once her PT was complete.
The next place was a house in Midtown, and the trifecta of crazy neighbors.
Admittedly, we may have been the crazy neighbors for a little while. We hated the conservative, wet blanket couple next door so much, that we plotted ways to neighborly torture them. Between us, and the raging, fanatical, prostitute-loving psychopath living in the shed behind the house (I'll get time him in a second), those poor people never stood a chance. They broke their lease within 6 months of our moving in.
After the wet blankets moved out, Danny and his lady friend moved in. I do mean lady friend in the strictest platonic sense. She was a lady, and a friend of his, who would regularly strap on a dildo and get personal with Danny in the kitchen. Vast difference from the people who wanted us to use our library voices all the time.
Raging, fanatical, prostitute-loving psychopath who lived in a shed behind our house (aka Bobby Hall): this man carried an axe around like it was as normal as using a cane. Yes really. He was an axe-wielding, raging fanatical, prostitute-loving psychopath. He used to threaten passersby, poison stray cats, and change the oil in my car. I liked Bobby Hall as much as I was afraid of him.
Eventually we moved to a house with a basement apartment, with 2 basement apartment neighbors. They seemed fairly tame, until we learned, after they moved out, that they had been growing hydroponic marijuana in a secret room they had in their bedroom closet. Seriously, we had no idea that was going on, but I finally felt vindicated for all those times I asked Boyfriend if he smelled pot and he acted like I was nuts.
Certainly the crazy neighbor trend would stop once we left the city for the peace and quite of the suburbs. But no...of course not...enter the "Chicken Man."
The Chicken Man is well documented in my blog for irritating the bejesus out of me and the rest of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, crazy got the best of him, and 2 days ago he poured gasoline all over his home and himself, then blew everything up in order to avoid eviction. Let's just say crazy neighbor bar has been raised.
Suddenly, the man whore I have living above me now seems so very tame. Fuck 'em loud sir, just don't blow the place up.