I would have never described myself as paranoid, but I think living on the edge of Boulevard has had its effects. I got home Sunday only to find a Maserati parked out back. I'm convinced we now have drug dealers living or doing business on the premises. This is on the heels of a neighbor randomly showing up with a baby one day. All I'm saying is she was never pregnant and, one conversation would convince you she's not fit for adoption. The only plausible conclusion is that she stole a baby. As if all of that isn't enough, my incredible humping downstairs neighbors have picked up a new hobby -- this one lasts a little longer but nevertheless happens at 3 a.m. -- they've begun playing the bass guitar. I could get down with some good bass, but, surprisingly, these two lack anything that resembles rhythm.
That, in a nutshell, is my Atlanta home life -- crack heads, stolen babies and bass guitar.
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