I’m kind of a low-key genius spy and I’ve all but completely cracked the case of what exactly the deal is with my downstairs neighbor. He is almost definitely gay-for-pay, perhaps gay for real and probably the most angry and under medicated person I have ever met.
This is a message to that loose cannon and any other loose cannon out there: Don’t let your interior be as ugly and pointless as your exterior and for your information, Molly McAleer has never needed anyone but Molly McAleer.
There is a man who lives on my street whom I call, “The Whistler.” He craves endless attention and I think he may be a drug dealer based on the fact that he’s always popping in and out of houses all over the street. He’s either a drug dealer or a grown version of the kid that every neighborhood had that would go to everyone else’s house and ask for a snack or if they could come in and play, even during dinner time.
My mailman is a loser. There is no other word to describe a person who is not only terrible at his job, but has no desire to do anything about it. He is lazy and impolite and quite brazen about it. He lies frequently and shows no remorse. If my mailman were my boyfriend, my friends would be afraid for my life.
Leaving someone a voicemail message on someone’s cell phone in 2011 is not only misguided, it’s selfish. It’s difficult to think of a situation in which leaving a voicemail is necessary because, well, it’s not.
I don’t want to hear about your lunch for the same reason I don’t want to hear about the last bowel movement you took or your most recent orgasm; it’s the least personal thing a human can do in that we all do it, but the most personal in that I’m not entirely sure any two humans experience food in the same way.
I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer fuck with hallucinogenic mushrooms. It’s taken five trips, four of which could only be described as a sneak peek of the afterlife destination most commonly referred to as hell, to decide this.