It’s a jungle out there.  In my apartment complex that is but let me gross you out first. My training is finally becoming rough and my body is weary.  I had a strange feeling in my foot the whole time I was jogging (indoors, if I may add).  Not a burn or an itch, not even a cramp.  More like someone took sandpaper and was removing 15 layers of skin.

Anywho, I came home on Saturday, took off my beat up sneakers but not my socks as they had fused with my skinless foot.  It took 30 minutes of gasping pain to free it and I earned myself a wonderful do-nothing Sunday at my balcony with my camera.

I’ve spent the better part of my life in urban areas, mostly rife with sore-filled indigents, psychotic cops, and gun-touting grade 3 drop-outs.  When I could move, I moved to a gated community just around the corner.  There are still psycho cops and smelly crazies around but they have good credit.

Despite the fence and fancy cameras, I can see a love hotel from my window. It is an hourly rate hotel (a whorehouse for those of you living in a civilized part of the world where whores and Johns hide their nastiness).

What’s so special about my neck of the concrete jungle this time around?  It mixes the quaint with the degenerate.

Fellow bloggers and lurkers meet Pool Boy Extraordinaire.  A young, slight, cheerful boy who spends hours and hours picking wayward toads and fake leaves from the pool.  I’ve always wondered about pool boy tales. What does the pool boy have that the FedEx dude or the fridge guy with the hairy crack doesn’t?  I have no idea but they are hag magnets.

Speaking of hags, please meet La Slut d’Unit A.  A woman who sunbathes for hours, exposing her lumpy body to all and scaring young children.  She would go up to the poor boy and start rubbing his shoulders.  I get this urge to club her with my tote bag as I walk to the mailbox.

Apparently I’m not the only one with the urge.  The boy’s mother (who also works in the complex) witnessed his molestation once and did not approve at all, making for a perfectly trashy afternoon fight.  Why can’t I be somewhere in New York going to a museum or seeing a Broadway show instead of this? Sigh.

Finally, meet ex-prince charming, my summer long companion (okay maybe a couple of weeks).  He scares me every morning when I step out of the apartment.  I tried to take his picture but he’s too fast so I got a picture of his cousin.  He stares even if I point my shoe at him. What? I think he’s telling me something. Break your spell? Not on your life!  Not after you had litter with the hussy frogette next door.