Murphy's Law toys with me this time.

So...you may know, we've been having issues with our neighbors upstairs.  Their relationship "issues" have escalated to full-blown yelling matches, doors being slammed, and the male leaving in a substance-induced huff (bye!!!!).

Remember this post?

Well, over the weekend I had to report them again.  More fighting.  Because apparently they love web-blogging Jerry Springer action on www.INeedANewBoyfriendBecauseThisOneIsAToolBag.com.

It had actually been awhile since we last heard them.  That may have had something to do with breaking her arm because you ran into her with your vehicle.  Or the fact that you don't know how to use a brake.  Or you drive under the influence.  Or you're an overall "hot mess" and don't know how to function as non-jackass.

But he's back...for an instant.

So when I get the call Monday from HOA Management that the woman's father was very concerned for her safety with the latest rounds of physical violence (I'm told her father is retired LAPD...so why didn't he come personally come kick the dude's ass, change her locks, and fill out a restraining order???  I don't know.  All I know is that the Sheriff would do that.  Along with a secret Mafia-style hit.  He doesn't mess around.), I'm asked when I've last heard either of them being upstairs.  It's been reported that her car is still in the garage, and that she's not answering any phone calls, and the door's not being answered despite the father's friend POUNDING on the door for 2 hours (I literally thought someone was hanging a shit ton of pictures...so it didn't phase me...).  The police will knock down the door in 24 hours.

"Umm, I heard the bath run this morning..."

Right then I freeze.  Holy shit.  She's killed herself in the bathtub.  Who takes a bath in the morning?  Minus the geriatric or pregnant???  She's totally cut her wrists, oozing blood all over, and I'm waiting for the scent to show up of a decomposing body.  One without a cat in the condo to start eating the rotting flesh.

And women are totally quiet in their suicides.  No shotguns.  No jumping off bridges.  It's pills and razors.  That's it.  She's off'd herself upstairs.  The ultimate Murphy's Law.  Because Mr. Wookie isn't here...

So all day Monday, I wait for footsteps.

Monday evening, I envision her soul wafting down through the ceiling, pissed at my narking on her "relationship," then drags my ass outta bed a la Paranormal Activity.

Tuesday, I wait for more footsteps....

A lot of settling in the building, but nothing confirmed.  And no police intrusion either, so I wait for further bitching...footsteps...or a phone call to tell me they've found her body dumped in a ravine somewhere because that douche-nozzle of a boyfriend kidnapped her.

But this morning confirmed life upstairs.  And mid-morning sex.  Because there's nothing I like more than hearing my neighbor didn't drain her blood supply.  Instead, she's hopefully found a new conquest to take her mind off the waste-of-carbon boyfriend she used to have.

Or maybe she left his body in the ravine.  That'd be nice for a change...