Neighbors are a funny little thing. They can annoy you more than a mosquito swarm bugs a man with no limbs, but there is always a part deep deep inside of you that desires to love them, a part that craves a relationship void of conflict and property line lawsuits. I began this week ready to welcome the fellow Westlake inhabitants with open arms and jolly smile, expecting no less than that in return (plus the occasional starbucks). But I have found some of them to be quite the opposite of neighborly. Especially the homeless community, which I cannot seem to find on Twitter. I thought we’d get along great, what with the awkward irony of my tiny home from which I cannot escape, and their freedom to roam. I live for this kind of awkward tension. But alas, members of this community and others persist in banging on my windows and doors, nagging me with silly questions about my confinement, and marching up and down my front stairs as if to protest the existence of stairs in general. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty about living in this thing. I can’t get out! I have no choice!
It typically takes me about ten seconds into explaining myself before I realize how stoned the person speaking to me is. I can usually back out such conversation fairly quickly by saying “go the website” or “follow me on twitter”. These words (website, twitter, facebook, scavenger hunt) have the same effect on stoned people as “The British are coming!” had on the American colonists in 1775–panic, shock, and disinterest. It becoming fun again. Yipee!!!
As I reflect on my neighbors, both permanent and fleeting ones, I’m about to snuggle in for a nice movie and the rest of my bag of goldfish. I hear there’s a big day of clues tomorrow, so I want to be well rested. Hopefully by this time on Wednesday I will dancing through the streets! Bah, humbug.