First Blog (The History of Fatima)

What up world! So this is my first blogging adventure!  I thought it would be appropriate to give you the story behind my volatile relationship with my neighbor. 

I live in these kind of wack apartments in Farmington Hills. (They are cheap... keep a roof over my head so I will deal with it) I used to live on the bottom floor, otherwise known as the "bat cave" because it's technically below ground. It was horrible! When it rained it would flood, smell bad, I would get bugs, etc. I also lived in the hallway that had the laundry room for the entire building (70+ residents).  

One Sunday morning as I was leaving my place and this ghetto ass lady comes in the hallway with a cig in her mouth. I don't smoke. I don't care if others smoke, but when it's in front of my door I have issues. So I shot her the grimiest of grimey looks...real Detroit style! She looked right at me and blew smoke in my face with an even more grimey look. I think I urinated on myself out of my minor fear of being stabbed at that moment. She moved passed me all slow like she was John Wayne's ghetto side chick. Crazy right? 

Well I come home later that evening and find a plastic bag sitting on my welcome mat. After closer examination I realize it is a plastic bag full of poo! What? Yes. Poo. I find my broom stick and throw it away. Had to be my neighbor.  

Fast forward a few months and I want to transfer apartments because I can't take the bat cave anymore. The only apartment available is next to... you guessed it... John Wayne's doo-doo bag jump off.  I was devastated.  The apartment was bigger, cheaper, on the second floor. What should I do? 

I thought about for a few days and scoped out the sitch.  

One night as I'm coming home I hear "Get him Johnny! Get him" over and over again. I look up and see this chick's boyfriend fighting her kids with giant boxing gloves. FUCK! I just signed the lease agreement. No backing out now. I will kill her with kindness! You know bake cupcakes or some shit.  

As I'm moving I see her...I suck it up...say hello...put my valley girl voice on. Whew! We are good. Her name is Fatima. I think she is a stripper. Black chick... gold hair...Labrae piercing... odd hours...always smells like Fresia and Newports in my hallway.  

Now I thought things were going to be fine until I realize this bitch LOVES to sing Keyshia Cole at the top of her lungs, smoke like a carton of Newports a day, yells at her kids, has insane family members with sever respitory problems.   I don't know if I can take it. 

At least I am rubbing off on her. If you know me, you know I'm like a hipster version of Martha Stewart with huge knockers and a love for ghetto rap jams. I have a wreath on my door and a door mat with "welcome" in different languages. When I moved in, I believe she had a rag on her doorstep. Now she has a door mat...Think she might of stole from the gas station, but I'm not sure.