This Is Why I Don’t Answer Doors

It’s cold, so I’ve been answering the back door for people more. I really don’t want to, but it annoys the fuck out of me when people pound on the door.

9 times out of 10, it’s someone who’s been locked out or the Fedex guy. The last time, though? It’s a doozy.

It’s a woman whose care has been stolen by her drug dealing baby daddy who is trying to visit someone in the building because her phone has no network or something. But that person isn’t home.

So she winds up sitting in my living room for an hour, calling a dozen different people on Ashe’s phone (because, again, hers doesn’t work), trying to get someone to come pick her up.

She calls her brother and baby daddy’s sister to complain and threaten to call the cops on this guy, who is most definitely on probation, and has taken her brother’s car for an out-of-state drug run.

I’m not making this shit up. I don’t even wish that I was because it’s such a weird story.

All her texting, calling and threatening does little, so she tries to get in touch with the guy’s PO, but it’s well after business hours, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she doesn’t like the option and isn’t actually going to follow through by visiting the police station in the morning.

She finally gets someone to pick her up, leaves. But then she comes back because the guy who fathered her children — an error in judgment, if you ask me — hasn’t showed up. So she returns to my living room.

Meanwhile, Ashe and I can’t believe this is happening or how rude she is. She hasn’t introduced herself before using Ashe’s phone. She hasn’t apologized for invading my space, and she doesn’t say “Thank you, ” as far as I can remember.

Keep it classy, lady. You’re a reminder of who I don’t want to be.. and why I should just let people freeze to death outside.