misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

Here's another short, but powerful, one for you:

Two days ago my neighbor called me at work to tell me Stephen was confused, bleeding, and trying to get into our apartment (our apartment is one below his). He smeared blood all over our door and the wall around our door. Who knows what the hell he left on the door handle. Probably the vagina juice of some fat hooker, smudged remnants of the black death, and a microscopic maggot farm. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he was actually the one responsible for leaving pigeon shit on my patio when I lived in San Francisco.

He was gone by the time I got home.

What would I have done anyway? Kicked the shit out of a 60-year-old drunk? I wouldn't have wanted to touch him (besides, how embarrassing would it be if he ended up kicking the shit out of me, and Jill had to jump in to save my feeble ass).

So, there's nothing I can do, nothing my landlord can do, nothing the county will do, and nothing life will do. So, until I move, I have to accept that when I come home at night diseased blood will be all over my door.

I'm not afraid to admit when the day comes when someone tells me he's died, I'll be relieved. For him as much as for anyone. It's the only way I'll keep blood off the door to my home until I move. But even more importantly, other than Fosters, its probably the only escape he has from the crushing prison of his misery.