My neighborhood is extraordinarily peculiar. There are the Oldy McOldersons, the homeless people pushing shopping carts, methtards, and an ebullient community of drag queens. Their official bar is 4 doors down from our house, and Saturday night is a drug-crazed, high-heel stomping, wig-pulling, beglittered fiesta of the damned. The fighting is a near-constant, and used to keep me posted unwaveringly at the window, wishing for a baseball bat, mace, or even a sock full of horse-shoe magnets. But now, oddly--yet thankfully, it manages to lull me to sleep. You can get used to anything, I swear!
--Elissa.
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