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May 30, 2009
My loudmouth party-boy neighbor holds me captive outside our building when all I want to do is get inside and fold my laundry while it's still warm. it's my fault for saying, "How's it going?" in an attempt to demonstrate that I don't have to say some variation of "I could kick your ass, buddy boy" every time I see him.

I now know more about him than I ever wanted to know. I've seen his scars from a catastrophic bus accident. And am fascinated by his teeth, so yellow and square I swear he pilfered them from George Washington.