A race to the grave

A certain girl and I are having a turf war with the granny that lives in the apartment right above us and man, what I wouldn't give to skull fuck the shit out of her right now.

This witch sits out on her balcony 24/7 like a gargoyle fixture. When we go out there, she immediately makes an imaginary phone call and complains to the dial tone about the smoke, our voices or even the beeps from our cell phones. Its as if our very prescence is hindering her magical ability to ruin lives from her little tower of bitterness.

In one respect, her grievance is understandable because when we smoke, it travels right up into her face and shortens her lifespan. I figure since she's already at the tail end of a miserable existence, all we have to do is stay out there and chain smoke her into an early grave. What kind of person would I be if I didn't have goals?

I'm making a serious commitment here. It's an investment to smoke all the full flavor cigarettes I can to slowly murder a lady who probably spent the majority of her life writing complaint letters to television stations and making sure little children never retrieved the baseballs that landed in her yard.

I used to think I was doing her a service by letting her know she's a cunt. After all, there must be a cure for that by now. But now i realize that death by carcinogens is a plan that takes patience.

All we do is sit out there in silence chain smoking pack after pack while her friend over the phone says "if you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again." She rants about how she's going to get us evicted and go to the authorities. After she tires of that diatribe, then she starts going on about what idiot washouts we are and how we're sure to die of cancer.

So there you have it: a race to the grave between cobweb crotch and us. It's not about who wins or loses though. It's about "I'll see you in hell."


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Location:Edina, Mn