Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Good things come to those who kvetch.  For the past four months, I kvetched plenty.  I scolded.  I swore.  I over-emoted.  I threatened.  I warned.  I whined.  I yelled.  I pleaded.  I confronted.  I played the good neighbor card.  I played the dog rescue card.   I played the reverse psychology card.  In return, I received blank stares and smirks and the occasional "sorry." 

"Hey, guys," I said early on, "we can play this one of two ways.  You can keep the noise down, bring the party inside and close the windows.  Or, we'll make your lives a living hell. This is a quiet neighborhood, not a frat house.  No one around here is going to stand for this bullsh*t.  You can take this seriously, or not." 

The party boys chose "not."  And now they've been evicted, just as I told them they would be if they didn't behave in suburbia, or at the very least, pay their rent.  I expected to feel joyous, but what I feel, instead, is a combo platter of relief (Thank God that's over) and sadness (How stupid can they be?) and standard fear (Oh, sh*t!  Who's going to move in next?).  So ba-bye, party boys.  Ba-bye and good luck.  We wish you well.  You will not be missed.