Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You know, playing nice gets you nowhere. Honestly.

One of the biggest issues that I’ve had to contend with since the divorce has been living in the same neighborhood as J-Fed’s other women (a.k.a. T.O.W) and her faithful sidekick, who also was well aware of the fact that J-Fed and T.O.W. were running around together both during and after my marriage. We’ll just call her S.B., as in stupid bitch. She would smile to my face, send her daughter over to play and then shove the knife into my back before I could ever turn around.

I’d even seen the text messages she was sending to J-Fed as well. It was amusing watching the two little schoolgirls chase the star quarterback. Too bad they’d yet to realize not only could he not pass the ball… he didn’t even have any balls to pass.

Part of the problem has been that these women have children and we live in a small neighborhood. I’m from the school of thought that you can’t punish the children just because their parents are twats. So I’ve had to learn diplomacy. In fact, it wasn’t but a month ago that I was nice enough to give T.O.W.’s older son a ride home when I saw him walking, despite the fact that she had her ass planted flatly in J-Fed’s apartment on an almost daily basis since the day he’d moved out of my house.

As for S.B., I have had no problem allowing my daughter to play with her daughter. Nor have I had a problem rescuing her dog at least eight times when he’s escaped from their yard. I’ve brought him back time and time again, oftentimes without receiving nary a thanks. I’m fine with the fact she’s a friggin ingrate. You see, you can’t fault the dog because his owner’s a bitch. If memory serves me right, I just helped her son catch the dog, um, two days ago.