the lives of our neighbors

March 13, 2018

I haven't done the math, but I'm pretty sure 50% of my time in the apartment revolves around me jumping up and hurrying to our peep hole to try to catch a glimpse of our neighbors slinking through the hall. Do I have better things to do with my time?

 

Maybe. But not really.

 

Plus it's great cardio. 

 

Just meet them!, you say. But I have tried, trust me. I have tried. They come and go so quickly it's as if they don't want to be met (this is probably true but I refuse to accept it). 

 

We did a cookie drop the other week and the guy next door (who I nicknamed Neighbor Boy to protect his identity) came by to say thank you and helped Eugenia carry her cactus upstairs, so he's already winning in the neighbor department. His TV also shares a wall with my bed and I heard him watching Stranger Things the other night and was slightly tempted to knock on his door and ask to join. 

 

The guy who shares a wall with our bathroom (we’ll call him Neighbor Dave, which is his actual name, but we're going to pretend it's code) smokes in his bathroom, despite the fact that we're in a non-smoking building. I can’t prove it, but our bathroom smells like cigarettes when he showers, and it can’t just be some weird coincidence (unless it is! dun dun dun). It would probably be annoying if it didn't remind me so much of summers spent at my uncle's in Kansas and Eugenia of her Grandma. 

 

The guy who lives above the stairs rides a bike. He biked with Neighbor Boy on Sunday. He doesn’t get a name yet because I don’t know him well enough (lol)

 

The guy at the end of the hall, south side (we’ll call him Neighbor Ronnie) owns a white Subaru, and every morning, though I know he has an ice scraper, sits in his Outback and waits for it to defrost. You do you, Ronnie. BUT HOW. He also hasn’t picked up his mail in a few days, and it’s starting to stress me out. Pick up your mail, Ronnie. It’s right there!!

 

Anywho, I’ll keep spying on our neighbors until I get the opportunity to meet every single one and know far more than they ever wished me to know. I’m secretly hoping something crazy happens through the peephole so I can fabricate some elaborate wholly ridiculous story. It’s like Through the Rear Window, but no one dies.

 

I hope none of them discover this blog and rue the day I was born... 

 

Now I’m going to watch When Harry Met Sally on my laptop, drink some tea, and hope none of the neighbors are spying on me. That would just be awkward.

 

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i'm sydney.

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