My Neighbour Face Fucked Me

There’s a line every neighbor should know not to cross—an invisible yet sacred boundary that separates polite friendliness from total chaos. My neighbor, Rick, never saw that line. Or maybe he saw it and just didn’t care. Either way, on a cool Thursday morning, he stomped all over it like a rhino in tap shoes.

Let me paint the picture: I live in a modest suburban neighborhood where lawns are trimmed to military precision and mailboxes smile with HOA compliance. Rick moved in about a year ago. At first, he was the “quiet guy.” You know the type—waved occasionally, wore socks with sandals, and had a laugh like a haunted accordion.

For months, things were fine. Until the drones.

Yes, drones. Rick, a self-proclaimed “aerodynamic visionary,” decided our cul-de-sac was the perfect testing ground for his quadcopters. They buzzed past windows, hovered over barbecues, and once mistook a squirrel for a hostile object. He’d just grin and say, “It’s all about data collection.” I was 65% sure the man was spying on ants.

But it got weirder.

One night at 3 a.m., I woke to find my backyard lit up like a sci-fi movie. Rick was hosting a “lunar salsa dance”—in full astronaut costume—blaring Latin jazz while projecting moon craters onto his garage. I leaned out my window and yelled, “Rick, go to sleep!” He waved and yelled back, “We’re colonizing joy!”

Okay, that was annoying. But the day he really crossed the line came two weeks later.

It started innocently enough. I was watering my petunias—yes, I garden, fight me—when Rick popped his head over the fence and asked, “Do you have any spare glitter glue?”

“No, Rick,” I said, squinting suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just prepping for the neighborhood summit,” he replied, as if that explained anything.

An hour later, I got a text from my other neighbor, Janet: “Did you see your driveway?”

I sprinted out front. There, in sparkling rainbow letters across the entire concrete slab, were the words:

“YOU’VE BEEN SELECTED FOR NEIGHBOR OF THE YEAR!!!”

Glitter. Everywhere. It looked like a unicorn exploded. Rick emerged from the hedges like a sparkly ninja holding a clipboard. “Surprise! I took the liberty of nominating you for our block’s annual award,” he said proudly.

“We don’t have a neighborhood award, Rick,” I snapped, still choking on glitter particles.

“We do now!” he said, thrusting the clipboard into my arms.

That’s when I noticed every other neighbor’s name was written underneath, with "REJECTED" stamped across them in red ink. “Did you break into people’s mailboxes to do this?”

He paused. “I prefer the term ‘unsolicited community outreach.’”

I lost it. Absolutely blew a fuse. Not because of the glitter graffiti, but because this man had declared war on the sanctity of suburban peace. I told him, in no uncertain terms, to scrub my driveway, return Janet’s mailbox he “borrowed for design reference,” and maybe look into a therapist who specializes in boundary issues.

Rick apologized…by singing a song he wrote called “The Fence Is Only a Suggestion.” On my lawn. With bongos.

The neighborhood, surprisingly, rallied behind me. Apparently, Rick had hosted a “silent opera” in Tom’s shed, repurposed Margaret’s birdbath into a “fermentation chamber,” and turned Dave’s dog into an unwilling mascot for his drone brand.

In the end, the HOA held an emergency meeting. Rick was officially banned from all “innovative activities involving lasers, drones, or interpretive dance.” His face on the flyer was half-covered in glitter, like a bedazzled criminal.

But here’s the twist.

A few weeks after “Glittergate,” I found myself kind of…missing the chaos. Rick may have been an unhinged eccentric, but he brought energy to our dull little corner of the world. Suburbia is safe—but man, it can be painfully predictable.

So, one quiet Tuesday morning, I knocked on Rick’s door with two cups of coffee.

He opened the door wearing an apron that said “Dangerously Creative.”

“You want to test a water-powered disco ball?” he asked.

I sighed, smiling. “Only if it stays on your side of the fence.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Sometimes, the people who cross the line also color outside it—and maybe, just maybe, we need a little of that sparkle.