I Need to be Famous by Thursday

I am finally coming to terms with the fact that I am not cut out to be a productive member of society.

I originally intended to become a doctor or medical researcher.  I thought that I wanted to save people, discover things and change the world.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I just want to sit on my couch in my underpants all day.

This is why I need you to make me famous by Thursday.  Thursday is the day that I officially graduate from college.  Back in January, I thought I would be ecstatic when this day finally came.  I now realize that graduating is a huge mistake.  I wish I could take it back, but I can't.  At this point I can't even fail.  I am starting to panic.  

It doesn't have to be this way.  

If my blog can become famous and profitable, I will be rescued from the brink of adulthood.   If my blog becomes famous, it is possible that I will never have to wear pants again!  You have no idea how much this would mean to me.  I hate pants. 

Here is what you can do to help:

*Wear a brown ribbon in honor of my cause (nobody has dibs on brown yet, right?)  This will not only help me, but it will raise awareness for terminally adult people all over the world.  

*Run down the street screaming about how awesome my blog is.  Make sure to clearly annunciate the URL (spell it out if you have to.) 

*Hang up a banner outside your door that says "help rescue the author of hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com from impending adulthood." 

*Make flyers to support my cause.  Neon green and yellow would probably be good background colors for the flyers you make.  Just FYI.  

*Take out a phonebook.  Start dialing in the A's somewhere.  Educate the call recipient about my plight.  If they resist, ask them if they ever had a dream.  Use their first name if it is listed.  Try to use their nostalgia and insecurity over their broken dreams to get them on your side.  But don't be inefficient!  If you sense that the person is a heartless bastard who will not change their position no matter how much you plead, move on to the next name.  This is a numbers game and you can't get them all.  

*Call your local radio station.  Dedicate a song to me - preferably "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey.  Once again, make sure to clearly annunciate all syllables in my blog URL.  I cannot stress how important this is.    

That's all you have to do to assure that my future can be spent pants-less and happy!  Is that too much to ask? 

P.S.  I am completely serious about this.  How funny would it be if someone actually did some of these things?  Even if I don't get famous, I would probably be able to live the rest of my life in complete happiness knowing that some person, somewhere did these things in my honor.  

If you take a movie/picture of yourself doing any of these things, I will post it on my soon-to-be super famous blog along with a description of how awesome you are.  

P.P.S.  I wanted to tell you again that I am completely serious, just in case you didn't believe me.  

Am I Going To Die??

I woke up yesterday morning and became vaguely aware that my right toe felt like - well, the best way to describe it would be "dying-death-kill-maim-destroy-ness."  

This was only slightly more annoying than the fact that it was 6:00 AM on the only day I could sleep in and I could not get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until 6:37 and then decided that going to the ER would be a good idea because I was 96% sure that there was a firemonster in my toe.  

So it was that I found myself competing for medical attention with a burn victim, a dying six-year-old and a man with what appeared to be a dragon-conquering wound.  They were all looking at me like I did not deserve to be there.   

When it was finally my turn to be seen by the doctor, he asked me what was wrong and I had to look him in the face and say "my toe hurts."  

He asked me if I had a blister.   I was a little offended that he had so grossly underestimated my ability to accurately assess pain.  

"It's not a blister," I told him with what I hoped was an icy glare.  

He proceeded to ask me if I had a splinter.     

"It's not a splinter,"  I said in a low, menacing tone.  I wanted to tell him that it was probably a firemonster, but doctors don't like it when you beat them to a diagnosis.  I decided to play it cool.  

The doctor asked me to remove my socks.  Upon seeing my bulbous, throbbing toe, he appeared to take me a little more seriously.  

After asking me about several pleasantly legitimate possible sources of pain, like hammer wounds, rabid spiders and gout, he said "I'm going to order you some antibiotics just in case..."  

As it turns out, I may have an infection in my bone.  This means that I have to take a ludicrous amount of antibiotics every six hours to prevent death.  

My body doesn't seem to understand that the antibiotics are on its side.  So far, it has tried virtually every trick in the book to violently expel the antibiotics from my system.   I've tried to talk to my body about its behavior.  I told it that it was going to die if it didn't learn to get along with the antibiotics.  It didn't seem to care.  It is a stupid, stubborn little body - the kind of body that would die just to prove a point.  

I have since changed my angle.  I am now trying to appeal to my body's competitive side.  I told it that death means failure.  I asked it if it wanted to fail.  It made a gurgling sound which I interpreted to mean "no."  I said "Okay then, if you don't want to fail, I would suggest not dying.  Nobody wins if you die."  

I don't know whether or not I got through to it, but I am encouraged by the fact that my body has yet to follow through on dying.  Though I'd like to give myself credit for convincing my body not to die, the truth is there is another more plausible explanation for my continuing survival:  For all of its stubbornness, my body is also lazy - so lazy that it may forgo dying simply because it is too much work.   

It's Game Time! Vote For the Winner!

I challenged my fellow blogger, Kaloo, to a duel.  The idea is that our readers will vote for which of the following MS paint creatures would win in a battle to the death.  

This week we have Fire-breathing Spiky Unicorn versus Kung Fu Chicken.  

When voting, please take into account each creature's strength, agility, size, intelligence, special powers and basic awesomeness.   

Okay.   The power is in your hands now.   Will it be Kung Fu Chicken or Fire-breathing Spiky Unicorn?  Go!

WARNING: I Am Learning How To Do Computer Stuff. Blog Layout May Change Often.

I am just figuring out all this HTML business, so it is only natural for me to experiment with it.  I am halfway thinking about changing the background every day.   If you are one of those people who is diametrically opposed to change, I am sincerely sorry.  But change means no more mustard yellow and that is a good thing, I think.  Just in case you are still hurt about this, I drew you a picture of a raptor to make you feel better.  <--------------------

Today's background is a picture I took of one of my shirts.  I know it's cool, but don't get too attached to it.  It may be totally different tomorrow.  

I am also learning how to add videos to my blog.   If you think my sense of humor is random in written word, just wait until you see my videos.  

Anyway, if you have any suggestions or things you would like to see on my blog, please let me know.  I am now somewhat competent to oblige your wishes.  

Thing of the Day: Oscillating Fan. Rating: AWESOME

Dear Oscillating Fan, 

I commend you for your selfless efforts at keeping me comfortable.  No matter how hot it is, you patiently sit there and blow air at me without stopping to question the fairness of the situation.  You don't mind staying awake all night and all day, tirelessly blowing air on me.  Even when I trip over your cord, knocking you violently to the floor, you keep on faithfully doing your job.  

Sometimes I forget to unplug you when I leave the house.  You don't ever get upset about this.  You seem to simply assume that I want you to keep blowing on things, even in my absence.  

The other day, I thought it would be fun to see what happened when I stuck a piece of paper in you.  I wanted to see if I could make confetti.  I feel terribly guilty about this.  I don't know why I did it.  I shouldn't have amused myself at your expense.  You saw me coming at you with the paper and did not even flinch.  You trusted me, and I stuck a piece of paper in you and messed up your rotor.  I am sorry.  

When I realized that I had hurt you, I tenderly removed the mangled pieces of paper from your inner workings.  I told you I was sorry and you looked like you understood.  When I put you back together and plugged you in again, you started blowing air on me like nothing had ever happened.  I admire your extraordinary capability to forgive.  You are a good fan.  

I would like to do something nice for you, but I don't know what types of things oscillating fans enjoy.  I have had a couple ideas, but every time I ask you if you would enjoy them, you just shake your head.  I tried to surprise you by cooking you dinner, but you just spit it back in my face.  That was kind of rude, but I suppose I can forgive you because you are such an awesome fan.   

Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me.   If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask.  

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I finally got to call the Poison Control Hotline

I woke up late yesterday.  That meant that I had to do my 15-mile run during the hottest part of the day.  Raw stupidity coupled with an unrelenting devotion to my olympic pipe-dream got me out the door.

Yesterday also happened to be the day I discovered that my city's Parks and Recreation department does not believe in water fountains.  As a consequence, I found myself desperately thirsty and far away from home.  When the "Oh-my-God-I-am-so-thirsty-I-could-just-lie-down-and-die" stage of thirst hit me, I was still several miles from anything resembling a populated area.  

Just when I thought I was going to actually die, I came upon the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life:  a sprinkler.

If only I had known what a fickle stroke of luck this was.  

I am not psychic, so this particular sprinkler seemed perfect: close to the road, far from the house and partially obscured from view by an immaculately groomed hedge.  I stopped and nonchalantly walked toward my target.  

I was pleased to see that the hose was not attached to the sprinkler head - far easier to drink from.  I wouldn't have to chase it around the yard, biting at it like a dog!  (If you have ever tried to drink from a moving sprinkler, or have seen a dog try to drink from a moving sprinkler, you will surely understand my jubilation at not having to do so).   

My high spirits were soon tempered by the realization that turning on this particular hose was no small task.  There were an unimaginable number of switches, levers and wires attached to the inconspicuous black box from which the hose emanated.  If that wasn't enough, the entire apparatus needed to be plugged in to an electrical box that was in clear view of the house.

I almost gave up...  - Almost.  

At that point, I had invested too much to quit.  I fiddled nervously with wires and switches, like a criminal hot-wiring a car.   When I thought that I had the right combination, I made a dash for the electrical box. 

Once I plugged the system in, it was pretty easy.  I flipped one last switch and a stream of cold, clear liquid came gushing out of the hose onto the ground, obliterating a tastefully arranged patch of tiny blue flowers.  

Retrospectively, I can see that there were more than enough clues at that point to figure out what was about to happen to me, but we all know that thirst is inversely proportional to logic.  Only after my hydration status had returned to normal could I see the error of my judgement.  

I stuck the end of the hose directly into my mouth and began choking down water as quickly as I could.  

It was already too late when my brain registered an incongruity between the way that water is supposed to taste and the taste of the substance I was currently ingesting.  The only way to describe it is "Suave 'Ocean Breeze' shampoo mixed with tree sap."

At that point I realized that the property owners were the kind of people who put pesticides in their lawn-irrigation system with nary a thought of the health and well-being of parched runners.  Bastards.  

I stood there for a moment, the hose dangling limply in my hand.  What had I done?  

This is a tricky situation to find yourself in.  At first I thought it would be a good idea to get help, but how would I explain the events leading up to my present situation?  I imagined myself knocking on the property owner's door:

Me.  "Um... hi.  I just drank about a pint of 'water' from your fancy little irrigation system there.  Would you mind driving me to the emergency room to get my stomach pumped?  Yes?  Well, could you at least tell me the name of the chemicals that are going to kill me?" 

The explanation for my plight was prohibitively embarrassing.   Since embarrassment is also inversely proportional to logic, I decided to just run home.

The last 3 miles of my run were a blur of shame, panic and pesticide burps.

When I finally reached my apartment, I crawled up my steps, not unlike the scary child from The Ring, and oozed slowly through my front door.  

Boyfriend was alarmed:  "What happened to you??" he gasped.

"I'll tell you later," I moaned.  "Just get me the number for poison control."

Boyfriend was visibly distressed at this request, but when someone who looks like a character from a horror flick asks you to do something, you don't ask questions.  

Like 911, the Poison Control Hotline is reserved only for people in the midst of an emergency.  This being the case, I had always thought that calling Poison Control would be exciting - like being part of a special club.  I think most people feel this way deep down.  Well, if you ever wondered, calling Poison Control is not nearly as fun as you'd think it would be.   

Following is my best recollection of the phone conversation between myself and Poison Control:

Poison Control:  "You have reached the poison control hotline for Montana, Colorado and Idaho, this is Roberta speaking.  What seems to be the problem?"

Me:  "I think I may have ingested a large amount of pesticides."

Roberta:   "What kind of pesticides?"

Me:  "I don't know."

Roberta:  "You don't know?  Do you have the container that the pesticides were in?"  

Me:  "They were in a sprinkler."

Roberta:  "A sprinkler?"

Me:  "Yeah.  I was running."

Roberta:  "you were running from what?"

Me:  "No, I was running, like on a run... um... exercising?"

Roberta:  "you were exercising?"

Me:  "Yes, and it was really hot and I stopped to get a drink from someone's sprinkler."

Roberta:  (silence)

Me:  "It tasted like Ocean Breeze shampoo mixed with tree sap."

Roberta:  "I don't really know any chemicals that fit that profile, ma'am.  How much did you drink?"

Me:  "Uh... probably about a pint?  I was really thirsty."

Roberta (after another prolonged silence): "... How do you feel now?"

Me:  "Stupid."

Roberta:  "Do you feel lightheaded or nauseated?"

Me:  "Oh... uh.. kind of."  

Roberta:  "Are you hallucinating?"

Me:  "I don't know...  are you real?"

Roberta:  "Yes, I'm real."

Me:  "How do I know you aren't just saying that?"

Roberta (annoyed):  "Ma'am, are you hallucinating or not?"

Me:  "Um..."  - I figured I had about a 50/50 chance of getting it right - "No?"

Roberta:  "Well, since I don't know what chemical you may have ingested, the best I can do for you is tell you to sip some water, lie down and wait to see what happens."

Me:  (on the verge of tears) "am I going to die?"

Roberta:  "No ma'am, I don't think you are going to die.  You might throw up, though."

Me:  "Okay."

Roberta:  "Call back if you have any more questions or if you start to feel feverish or hallucinate." 

I had a lot more questions, but I doubted that Roberta, the possibly imaginary receptionist from poison control could (or wanted to) answer them.   

I hung up the phone and sat down on the kitchen floor.  Boyfriend peeked his head around the corner.  "Is everything alright?" he asked.  

"Well, that depends,"  I replied.  "Are you real?"

Thing of the Day: Remote. Rating: NOT AWESOME

Remote, you have one function:  controlling the TV from a distance so that I do not have to get off the couch.  It kind of defeats the purpose when you insist on being held 7 inches away from the sensor before you’ll do your job. 

I know the TV is big and intimidating, but you have to stand up to it.  Tell it what to do.  It understands that you are only taking orders from me.  

Here are the things I expect you to be able to communicate to the TV:

“Wake up, it’s movie time.”

“Play the movie.”

“Stop the movie for a little bit.”

“Stop the movie forever.”

“Speak up.”

“Please use your inside voice.”

“Please display your menu.”

“Please select this particular item from your menu.”

“Speak English.”

“Go fast.”

“Go backwards.”

“Stop what you are doing, it is no longer movie time.”

If you are uncomfortable saying any of these things to the TV, I may find it necessary to open up your position to a more assertive remote.   I am sorry, but this is a job that requires the candidate to be able to manage effectively from a distance.  If the TV doesn’t respect you, it will not listen to you, and if the TV does not listen to you, I actually have to use my muscles to walk over to it and tell it what to do myself. 

 

Thing of the Day: Microwave. Rating: NOT AWESOME

Microwave, we need to get a few things straight here.  First and foremost, five consecutive beeps is more than enough to alert me that you have finished cooking what I’ve asked you to cook.  I swear to God, you beep louder than anything has ever beeped before.  At 6:00 AM, this kind of behavior is alarming and unnecessary. 

Another point of contention is that button of yours marked “time.”  If I want you to cook something, I cannot just start pressing number buttons.  No, that would be too simple.  Instead, you force me to verify that I am indeed planning on using the number buttons as an indication of how long I expect you to nuke my food.  Is this step really necessary?  I cannot be expected to remember this requirement of yours at the aforementioned hour of 6 in the morning, and I just end up fumbling confusedly with your buttons until I remember “oh yeah, the microwave can’t understand even the simplest directions until I press ‘time,’” which makes me even more irritated and unable to handle your ludicrous beeping. 

 You also seem to misunderstand the meaning of “defrost.”  When I ask you to defrost something, it means that I want you to make it unfrozen enough to cook on the stove (which, by the way, is way better at its job than you.)  It does not mean that I want you to cook the shit out of a quarter-sized portion of my flank steak while leaving the rest completely frozen.  Are you high? Why would I want you to do that? 

Additionally, you seem to define a “day” differently than I do.  Where I come from, a day is equal to exactly 24 hours, but you seem to be under the impression that 24 hours and 58 seconds is an acceptable approximation.  I assure you, it is not.  You have a clock in your stupid face for a reason:  to help me tell time so that I may be punctual in my activities.  When you get sloppy and lose track of a minute every day, it really adds up.  This is especially troublesome because I was brought up to believe that clocks should not be doubted in their ability to track the passage of time.  I trusted you, and you let me down.  I know that being off by 17 minutes doesn’t seem like much to you because you are a microwave and your life doesn’t involve going places and doing things, but as a human, 17 minutes can mean the difference between getting an A on a lab report and not even being allowed to turn it in.  To put that in perspective, do you remember that time I overcooked that piece of chicken?  Remember how it made you stink for about 19 months?  That piece of chicken was only overcooked for about 2 minutes.   Are you beginning to grasp the seriousness of this problem?

If you are unwilling or unable to perform the basic functions for which you were designed, I may be forced to replace you.  I feel bad about having to get rid of you, but I can’t exactly keep an annoying chunk of beeping plastic around just for sentimentality and I could really use the counter space.  

So now the ball is in your court, Microwave.  If you don’t want to end up being a chair for some dump-dwelling vagrant, I would suggest that you reevaluate your behavior.  

Sincerely,

Allie

One Day Without Dessert and I am Already Considering Prostitution

I made the mistake of checking my bank account balance yesterday. Let's just say that if my account balance was a pile of rocks, I would not have a very big pile of rocks. In fact, if we lived in a society where rocks were used as a sort of primitive currency, I would not have enough rocks to pay rent. This realization prompted me to reevaluate my spending in an attempt to find things I could cut out of my budget. Here are my total superfluous expenses for the month of June:

1. Food that tastes good
2. "Fancy" tampons
3. Overdue movie rentals
4. One issue of Cosmopolitan magazine
5. Midol
6. Highlighters 
7. Dessert


I had no choice but to eliminate all but the most essential expenditures, so I resigned myself to a more spartan existence.   

Day-One without my luxuries went surprisingly well, until about 9:00 PM. It is at about that time that I usually have dessert.  When I realized that I was not going to get dessert - not even the next night or the night after that - I began to panic.  For the first time in my life, I briefly considered prostitution. How hard could it be?  Craigslist has turned the world into a virtual street corner. My mind started churning over the angles I could use to advertise myself:  

slightly used 1985 model female companion.  All original parts. 1 previous owner. Fairly low maintenance. 20 miles per pint of Ben and Jerry's.  $50 or equivalent amount of chocolate/tampons. 

So sexy... 

An ad of this magnitude would surely garner me all the chocolate and fancy tampons I could ever dream of! I could even buy two different-colored highlighters if I felt so inclined! 

Just as I was getting excited about my prostitution-fueled candyland, my boyfriend reminded me that I respect myself too much to actually go through with selling my body for dessert and feminine hygiene products. But I am not so sure. My moral standards get a little hazy when I am facing this kind of deprivation.

My boyfriend also brought to my attention that I wouldn't actually be making as much money as I thought because I would definitely have to get myself a pimp "for protection." My boyfriend is always looking out for my safety and well-being! 

I have not, as of yet, put up my ad on Craigslist, but it is almost lunchtime and I am already sick of rice. 

I am Sorry, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor (Part 2 of My Neighbor Saga)

Today, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, you managed to redeem yourself.
You see, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, I managed to contract the Mutant-Death-Flu. This particular disease is merciless, as you may already know. I am sure the same thin walls which allow your musical conquests to enrich my environment did little to disguise my pathetic whimpering and violent retching as I lay dying on my bathroom floor.

In between vomiting sessions, I found myself curled into the fetal position beneath my toilet, staring at a wadded up Kleenex because I was sure it was the only thing keeping me in this world. I then realized this was the kind of illness one should not try to conquer alone. I needed medical attention.
The problem, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, was that I needed a ride. Oh how desperately I needed a ride to the campus health center! You are the only person in my apartment complex who doesn't have a job, therefore the duty of being my hero fell upon you. I didn't want it to be you. I really didn't. But in the end, you were there for me.

When I was finally near enough to death to justify knocking on your door at 2:30 in the afternoon, you emerged like a bat seeing light for the first time. Your entire mouth was stained neon blue from the 44-ounce Slushy you were still clutching in your hands. A TV show, possibly Battlestar Galactica, was playing in the background. You were wearing that wretched V-neck sweater. Nonetheless, when you heard me plaintively request to be driven to a medical establishment, you sprung to action. You sprinted to retrieve your keys with the kind of grace only achieved by adult man-children wearing combat boots and tight, black tapered jeans. I truly appreciated your haste.
I slumped into your Subaru with the automatic seat belts. I didn't even mind that I was sitting on a week's worth of Burger King wrappers. You told me that you wouldn't hold it against me if I puked in your car. Thank you, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor.
I could tell you were trying your best to not talk about your life and how much you don't like it. When you couldn't think of anything else to talk about, you simply turned on your Moby CD really loud (it was super loud, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor) and left me in peace. Thank you.

You were driving really fast. You understood the urgency of my intestinal plight, and responded. Thank you. I am sorry I smelled like bile. Was that why you had to have your window open in the middle of February?
Upon my admittance to said medical establishment, you even came back to check in on me. This was completely unnecessary and awkward, but I admired your chivalry. You stood over my bed until you were absolutely certain that your heroic moment was over. Over, but not forgotten, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor. Over, but not forgotten.
Because of your bravery and quick, instinctive action, I hereby grant you 400 full repetitions of the chorus to "Yellow Submarine" free from my judgement. You earned it, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor!

An Open Letter to My Neighbors (My Neighbor Saga Part 1)

Dear Neighbors,
My couch is vibrating from the baseline of your horrible oompa loompa music. 

From what I can hear, this “music” consists of two only slightly different notes played in rapid succession.  Every so often, this insanity-provoking monotony will be broken by a string of different notes which are also repeated incessantly.   It sounds like this:

Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong, (slight, almost imperceptible change in pitch) bing, bang, bing, bang, (change the pitch back again because we couldn’t possibly have had enough of the ding donging) ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong, bing, bang, bing, bang, ding, dong, bing, bang, ding, dong, bing, bang, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop (oh shit, now it is just one single repeating note!) bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop…

This is the kind of music that enters your ear and then proceeds to gnaw a hole in your brain until you can no longer feel feelings. But it doesn’t just go into my ears, does it? Your base is turned up so loud that your music infests my entire body . It is the musical equivalent of being molested.  Please don’t do this to me, it makes me quite uncomfortable.

I have recently discovered that your stereo is not your only means of musically raping me.  
I am talking about you, Insomniac Musician Neighbor.  You stay up until the wee hours of the morning, making incomprehensible noise from what I assume is a guitar.  

You also sing. And I am assuming that you are singing as loud as possible to hear yourself over your guitar. I also assume that you are failing at that last endeavor, because if you were able to hear yourself, you would not be singing. I am not saying this to be mean, but you seriously sound like a cross between a fog horn and a chainsaw. There is no pitch involved when you sing. In fact, it seems that your main goal is to simply be as loud as possible.

While I appreciate the enthusiasm and heart you have exhibited in your craft, it is not conducive to my life and my goals when you practice your art form at 2:00 AM with that kind of ferocity.

“Yellow Submarine” does not need to be remade. If you absolutely cannot suppress your desire to remake this song, please at least learn the rest of the words. I agree that the chorus of this song may be one of the greatest miracles LSD has ever produced, but it is much less awesome when you sing it - in a drunken stupor - 718 times in a row (this really is not that large of an exaggeration!)

Also, it was really creepy that time you knocked on my door and invited yourself in to sit awkwardly on my couch. It was 10:00 PM. I was in skimpy pajamas. You smelled like beer-sweat and failure. And I will have you know that you thwarted my best attempts at conversation. I really didn’t know what to do with you sitting in my living room like that, looking around like you were planning where you were going to stash me when you cut me into pieces. I tried to keep it light. We talked about pets and siblings and how many of each you and I had. I tried to stretch it out: “Does your brother have a middle name?” but your presence outlasted my every pleasantry. Despite my valiant efforts to keep the conversation breezy, you artfully steered it in the direction of your personal problems. Please, please, please for the love of God, don’t do this to people! I really don’t know what to say when you are telling me about how your girlfriend dumped you and you can’t find a job and you broke your foot so now you can only find salvation through your music. I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU!!! All I know about you is that you like to “sing” a lot and “play the guitar” a lot and I guess now I know that you are depressed - which, by the way, is making me feel like a terrible person for beaming hatred at you when you choose to do either of the other two things I know about you at an inappropriate hour. I remember saying “I am sorry that happened to you” a lot. Apparently this was a mistake because…

…Now, whenever you see me passing by the front of the apartment complex we share, you stop me for therapy-time. This happens at the worst possible times. Like when my arms are full of embarrassing groceries or when I have to pee really bad, or (my favorite) the time you intercepted me after I’d walked 2 miles home from campus in the bitter cold and wind, thinking the whole time about how I was only 10 minutes from my warm house… now only 7… now only 2 and finally only 30 seconds - the warmth of my domicile was easily within reach when you leered out of the shadows with a breathy “how’s it goin’?”

Me: “Good,” (I lied, and with horrible grammar!)

You: “Nice walk?”

Me: “Yeah” (I lied again)

You: “I would go for a walk, but I busted up my foot again. It sucks.”

Me: “I am sorry to hear that.” (I can see the warm lights in my window and all I want to do is be in there, out of the frigid windy cold away from you. What are you DOING lurking out here anyway??)

You: “yeah, I’ve been kind of depressed about the whole thing.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

You: “It’s okay. At least I have my music, right?”

Me: “Yeah, at least you have that.”

You: “I wrote a new song...”

Me: “Fantastic!”

You: …… (stands in awkward silence)

Me: “Whelp. I have to get inside before I catch my death out here.” (Why is it that I always rely on old-timer expressions to avoid awkward moments?)

You: “Good talkin’ with you.”

Me: “Yep, have a good night!” 
(That was an abridged version of an actual conversation you and I had. Our conversations are usually tragically longer than this, but you can get a rough idea of what I go through when you ambush me like that.)

Once I am reasonably sure I have exited the conversation without being rude to you or trampling on your feelings, I escape as quickly as possible, which is not very quickly because usually my keys choose to get stuck or buried at the bottom of my purse and you are still standing there staring at me expectantly, which only makes me fumble with my keys more, because, frankly, I am starting to panic.
I FINALLY claw my way into my nice warm apartment, deadbolting the door behind me.  And then the oompa loompa music starts…