There's this red car that has been parked—badly—outside of my apartment since the day I moved in nearly a year ago. I've watched dead leaves gather around its ever-flattening tires, snow and ice take longer to melt under its bumper than elsewhere, and more recently, spider-webs grow on its front grill and wheels. I used to be mildly annoyed that I have to walk around it every morning and every night, but now, I want it gone. It is no longer a mild amusement: now, it's in my way. You see, now I have a car, and I want that parking spot. But no, no no, it has a parking sticker saying that not only does it belong to one of my everso delightful neighbors, but also that it can legally keep its rotting ass right there.