Apologies Are In Order

I think I may be the neighbor from hell. I don’t throw raucous parties, or drive like one of those douchebag Audi owners through the parking lot. I pick up other people’s trash, and have even been known to say hi when I’m not daydreaming about almond croissants.

Despite my best efforts to be a decent member of society, some apologies to current and former neighbors are definitely in order.

To the neighbor who saw me topless:

Your expression really said it all. It was a mixture of pity, lust and confusion. Coincidentally, that was the same look I once gave to my reflection after eating an entire Little Caesar’s pizza by myself. I’m sure you had no idea that breasts could double as suspenders, or have so many stretch marks that it looks like there’s a freeway system tattooed on them. The truth is, puberty was not kind to me, and my breasts are now registered weapons in nine states. I guess I should’ve rushed to cover myself up, but I was pretty sure it was the last opportunity I’d ever have to show my chesticles to a man, and I had to soak it up. I’m sorry if this has stirred up a weird fetish, and your future wife finds you searching for “low-hanging tits” on the internet one day.

To the neighbor who saw me peeing in the bushes outside his window:

You’ll be happy to know my drinking has calmed down considerably since we lived next door to each other. I had a bionic liver at the time, and was known for consuming so much liquor that you could cut me, and get drunk off of my blood. That night I had downed an entire bottle of Hennessy along with a few Smirnoff Ices by myself. I’m embarrassed by this not because I was drinking alone, but because no self-respecting human being drinks a Smirnoff Ice. I had been playing “Wannabe” by Spice Girls for what seemed like 17 hours, and prancing around my apartment like some drugged up Burning Man hippie. I was so disoriented that I couldn’t remember where my own bathroom was, and wandered outside to find a place to pee. I pulled down my underwear, steadied myself against your window, and started treating the bush like one of R. Kelly’s dates. I am very sorry that the commotion woke you from your slumber, and forced you to stare directly at my urine-soaked labia.

To the neighbor who saw me retrieve food from a dumpster:

You seemed like a nice guy, and despite the fact that you’d adjust your balls from inside your pants, were the most normal person in that complex. It’s very important to me that you understand I don’t normally search dumpsters for food like a rabid raccoon. Anyone who has smoked pot will tell you that hunger can consume you, and you’ll find yourself eating bizarre concoctions like peanut butter and smoked salmon tacos while laughing hysterically at your hand (which you’ve just discovered is hilarious). I was a human garbage disposal that night: deli meat, a banana, leftover lasagna, and an entire bottle of dijon mustard. In an attempt to be healthier, I’d thrown out a bag of chips the night before; I blame Suzanne Somers who had hypnotized me through my television with her thighs of steel. I needed those chips back, and my trash bag ended up being much harder to find than I anticipated. That’s why you found me waist-deep in garbage calling out to a bag of Dorito’s as if we were playing Marco Polo.

To the neighbor I accidentally farted on:

I promise you that I don’t go around farting on people for fun. Except my sisters. And my 7-year-old nephew. And my roommate. Sometimes I’ll crop dust strangers, but that’s only if I think they deserve it. Not only was I menstruating the day I let my ass whisper on you, but I had also eaten some questionable chicken the night before. Do you know what that combination does to a woman? There was a 5-car pile-up in my gut, and I was worried that holding it in would result in me burping up something that tasted like what Charlie Sheen looks like. You crept up so quietly at the mailboxes, and I had no idea you were behind me when I unleashed the Hindenburg on you. I’m sorry for not only spraying you with my fecal dust, but for not having the courage to look you in the eye and apologize.

I can’t take back my shameful behavior, and I wish I could say I’ve grown as a person since then. Anyone who has read this blog even once would know that’s a huge lie. I just want you to know I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for exposing myself to you.

I’m sorry for invading your dreams with my bodily functions.

I’m sorry for having dinner in the community trash can.

I’m sorry for my booty cough.

I’m sorry, I really am.

Tags: charlie sheen, dumpster, fart, humor, neighbor, pee, rabid raccoon, saggy breasts, smirnoff ice, suzanne somers