My neighborhood. On a good day, it’s a slice of suburban perfection. The kind of place where the trees stand tall, the birds sing cheerful little tunes, and the air smells vaguely of fresh grass and somebody’s weekend barbecue. The neighbors? Mostly delightful. Some will even go out of their way to say hello, instead of pretending you’re an inconveniently placed lamppost. while others manage at least a courteous nod, which in today’s world is practically a declaration of lifelong friendship.
But then there are those days. The days when civilization takes a nosedive, and I start wondering if some people were raised by wolves—wolves that never finished their etiquette training.
Let’s start with the garbage. There’s nothing quite like the sight of fast-food wrappers and soda cups strewn across the road, as if the person responsible just thought, Ah yes, this is exactly the kind of place that needs more decorative McDonald’s packaging. Now, I doubt these litter-lobbing hooligans even live here. They’re just passing through, using our neighborhood as their personal landfill before disappearing off into whatever abyss spawned them. And honestly, it makes you want to collect all their trash, hunt them down, and return it right through their car window. Preferably while they’re still driving.
Then there’s the fire hydrant. Or rather, was the fire hydrant. Now, it’s just a sad, toppled-over relic, a casualty of some wannabe NASCAR driver who thought he could defy both speed limits and common sense. Turns out he could do neither. So there it lies, on its side, like a fallen soldier, waiting for the city to fix it—which they absolutely will. Sometime between now and the next ice age. And should an actual fire break out? Well, I suppose we’ll just have to form a bucket brigade, or maybe just stand around and hope the flames feel intimidated by our collective disappointment.
And speaking of disappointment, let’s talk about the neighborhood’s unofficial cigarette-butt distributor. You know the one—the human chimney who treats the sidewalk like his own personal ashtray. I imagine he thinks he’s making some sort of artistic statement, a performance piece on the transient nature of life. But no, man, you’re just gross. And while we all silently agree that you’re on a slow, painful path to self-destruction, do you really have to drag the rest of us into it?
Then there are the mystery bicycles. Two rusting, forgotten hunks of metal that have been left to fend for themselves against the elements. Are they part of an elaborate scavenger hunt? A neighborhood-wide endurance test to see how long we can all ignore them? Or are they, as I suspect, simply the abandoned property of some feral youths whose parents gave up long ago? Either way, they’re slowly becoming more landmark than vehicle, which is both tragic and mildly impressive.
We arrive at the crown jewel of suburban neglect: the dog poop zone, no pictures necessary for this one. A once-pristine patch of green on Quarter Mill, now transformed into a perilous minefield of unclaimed canine deposits. Because, apparently, some people believe that if they just look away while their dog does its business, the mess simply ceases to exist. Newsflash: It does not. It remains, sitting there in all its fecal glory, waiting for an unsuspecting shoe to claim it. Honestly, if you’re not going to pick up after your dog, you shouldn’t be allowed to have one. In fact, you shouldn’t even be allowed outside. Just stay home and live in your own filth, where it belongs.
But now, we must address the asphalt patchwork disaster. There’s a section of road in the neighborhood that looks like a desperate tribute to the pre-industrial era, a time when the concept of leveling tools was merely a distant dream. We get it—you fixed a broken pipe. But must we suffer this travesty of a repair job? It’s less of a road and more of a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains. Driving over it is like experiencing a poorly executed rollercoaster—except less fun and more existentially infuriating.
So, yes, I love my neighborhood. But some days, it tests me. Some days, I look around and think, this could be paradise… if only a few people would just stop being absolute savages.
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Disclaimer: This piece, although tackling serious issues, has been written with a liberal sprinkle of humor and no ill will. Well, maybe just a bit.
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