You're just messing with my head now, aren't you?

I don't know if the moon is full or what, but I think the crazy lady in apartment 4 has gone completely nuts (moreso, I mean). The parking-spot storage rotation has reached a fever pitch—in the past couple of days, I've seen a small bookshelf, a recliner-and-ottoman set, two houseplants, a stool, an ironing board, a deck chair, a coffee table, and a pretty calico cat that makes Regan yowl from her window perch. A couple of weeks ago when M! dropped me off, the venitian blinds in her window were hanging drunkenly askew, presumably knocked down by the enormous amount of junk pushed up against the panes—the aforementioned ironing board and plants, some unidentifiable furniture, and random papers. I don't know what happened, but I'm glad I wasn't trying to sleep through it.

The woman herself is a little frightning to look at. She spends a lot of time laying in the deck chair in the sun, and is consequently the color and texture of beef jerky that's been left out in the rain. Add this to the fact that her hair looks like Yosemite Sam's when dynamite blows up in his face, and her evident abhorance of wearing an actual shirt instead of a bikini top, and she's just a little bit of the frightning. I'm sort of waiting for her to be taken out in a straitjacket or the apartment to blow up. It's amusing in the meantime, though.