An Open Letter To Hoarder Neighbor Trying To Sell Your House
Let me first say that I’m thrilled with your decision to move. Your classiness really knows no season. Long summer nights spent swearing at each other while splashing around in your above-ground pool. Leaves gently falling on your collection of faded plastic outdoor toys [although you have no children under the age of 18]. Crisp winter mornings of yelling obscenities at your husband as he operated the snowblower, without wearing real pants. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not “all bougie.” I’ve drunk my fair share of Keystone Lights and smoked some cloves. I grew up with my cousin’s Chevy Nova in my yard, and there were BB gun bullet holes in the windshield. But I figured it out, and now I know where to draw the line.
I may or may not have cheered when springtime came and I saw your “For Sale” sign go up. Or maybe I did a [very understated] celebratory dance.
Morbid curiosity also may or may not have led me to attend your open house [with multiple people]. It was here that, to my horror, I discovered that you were hoarders. I figured something was wrong when your real estate agent was waiting in the car and refused to enter your house. Yes, you’re paying her to listen to Rod Stewart in her Ford Taurus and casually say “Hello” as people pass by. I thought I’d let you know. Oh, and she also gave me a pamphlet of photos of the exterior of your house. She said things like “needs work,” and “investment property.” Now I know why.
Even though you had ostensibly “moved out” it was still hard to determine a clear path from your living room to your kitchen. I should have brought a machete. You have proven that one can really go through life without throwing anything away, ever. T-shirts from a Bon Jovi concert in 1987. Peeling, plastic-coated “wood paneled” furniture. And piles and piles of indistinguishable crap.
I’ve watched enough HGTV to know that your mattress on the floor surrounded by piles of dirty dishes isn’t exactly “staging.” But the room filled with wall-to-wall Hot Wheels cars was a nice touch. I can really picture our My Little Pony collection creating a similar feng shui.
I’m happy to see that for the past few weeks you’ve been clearing out items. You had a garage sale and peddled your wares to the guy who pushes a shopping cart around the neighborhood collecting cans on trash night. I swear I saw that guy driving by in a brand new car the other day. I admire his entrepreneurial spirit.
You now rent a dumpster every weekend and wake me up at 7 a.m. on Saturdays as you hurl things down your stairs. You follow that by calling your husband a motherf*&ker, which I’d totally missed since you’ve been gone. Are you sure you want to sell?
So with that, I leave you with some advice. Light a match. Let her rip. And go for the insurance settlement. It’ll be much easier and judging by the height of your lawn, I’m guessing you prefer the easy way out. Or hire someone to do the job. Just don’t give them the wrong address.
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But you cannot be the exception to the rule. You cannot try to use your love to fix someone who is broken.
The first dilemma of the day is whether you will eat breakfast at home or in the office.
1. Melodramatic cataclysmic 6-year-affair. Thought he saw tattoo above my ass, it was really temporary glitter. Pencil dick. Masturbated into black dress socks only. Wrote a screenplay about me. 2. Psoriasis-ridden.
My parent’s divorce has played a huge role in my life, as it usually does for all divorced children. The effects have been both quite obvious – like being really good at packing an overnight bag – to almost subconscious.