I know I’m supposed to feel sorry for you, but I don’t.

They’re calling them “predatory lenders”, but when Diane and I went mortgage shopping for the house right next to yours we knew the kind of payment we could afford. When they told us they’d give us almost half a million for any house in our market, a snort of laughter propelled a booger straight out of my nose. We knew we couldn’t afford a house like that. If you’d spent 30 seconds running through your finances, you’d have known you couldn’t afford this house, either.

So don’t try to tell me how this wasn’t your fault.

I’d probably have a pang of sympathy if you and your friends didn’t use part of our lawn as your through-way to the main road after a party. But you did. How many times was I at your front door the next day? Four? Six? And Diane even made you cookies around Christmas for the two years you lived here. Never a card back or anything that might resemble graciousness. Unless you count tire tracks on our lawn, of course.

And now you’re gone, orange tag on the electric meter explaining why the lights aren’t on, phone books and other crap piling up on the front porch. Every few weeks I’m cutting your lawn, just so it isn’t overtaken by weeds that’ll infiltrate our lawn.

You sucked as a neighbor.  I’m not sorry to see you go.