For many years, I was under the impression that I was what you'd call a "good neighbor." You want to borrow a cup of milk? Go right ahead! On second thought, that shit's probably expired, let's just have a beer, eh? But lately I have started to get the feeling that I have been laboring under a misapprehension, like when you look at old pictures from a time you thought you were looking good, but now realize you were a chubby chaser, shaved heads are not a good look for chicks, and piercings? Just....no.
So I'm pretty certain my upstairs neighbor not only thinks I'm a bad neighbor, but a complete crackhead as well, since I can't seem to stop embarassing myself in front of him. Like last night, for instance, the one (fine, third or so) time I decide to throw my trash to the curb from my front stoop in my underpants or with my jeans unbuckled and belt half off, is the one time he comes downstairs and sees me. I had been trying to avoid him this week since 1. I owed him money for internets I had been stealing and 2. on Easter, I thought I had outsmarted him by coming home at 9am with a few homies to continue drinking, as opposed to everyone leaving at 6am as is the usual, but around noon there was a bit of a ruckus upon the discovery that my friend had pissed all over my floor/couch/foot (28 years old, people. Twenty. Eight.) while Chris laughed hysterically.
This, combined with the fact that I have already bought him apology cookies once and may or may not have freaked out his ten year old son by asking if he wanted to come hang out one time when I thought he was locked out (seriously, no pedo) has made me come to the conclusion that perhaps I am a bad neighbor after all. Is this enough to make me change my ways? Nah, but it does give me more incentive to get the I'm Sorry, Hungover Cookie Delivery Service business that Shan and I always talk about up and running!