Party Girl and a few of her unseemly friends have been tramping in and out of her apartment all afternoon. I caught a glimpse of cardboard boxes, and about an hour ago it sounded like a box of pots and pans spilled down the stairs.

If she is moving out, that means our new apartment manager moved very quickly through the eviction process, and it means that I’ll be able to sleep tonight without worrying about waking up to drunken screaming and the inane, shouted conversations between her and her high, smashed guests (or flames in the hallway, which is even more frightening). I’ll be able to tear up the slip of paper that lives next to my bedroom phone and has the non-emergency police number written on it. I’ll be able to stop parking as far from her car as I can (you never know when she’ll go out to get more booze). I’ll be able to listen to my own music instead of the unsettling combination of my music and her blasted country ballads. (And I fully intend all meanings of the word “blasted.”)

If she isn’t moving out, I’ll be terribly disappointed and very curious about what she’s been doing all day.

[Update: It’s official. When I got back from partying in the new year all her door decorations were gone. And now, this morning, she came back to vacuum and stuff, and I heard her telling someone about her “new place” and how much bigger and nicer it is that this “dump” was.]