My neighbor across the way doesn’t believe in curtains, but she does believe in ginormous cotton underpants, and sitting in front of her window in the mostly-nude. So that’s three things we have in common. My feeling about drapes has always been, well hell, if people are nice enough to do weird things in their window for my amusement, who am I to deny them similar?
I’ve seen a lot of naked people since I came to New York, and none of them probably shouldn’t be naked. My favorite still is the guy who was sitting in his window, having a smoke at 6 a.m. when I was walking home from a party. I saw him and screamed; he saw me and waved. Ah, Crazy Naked Guy.
Speaking of neighborhood nuts, the Opera Guy is back. I heard him today while I was reclining upon my divan, recovering from NaNoWriMo and watching the murders on TV.
I finished that, by the way: NaNoWriMo, not the murders. I could now use about a month of sleep. Sadly, it’s almost time to go back to work. Some day, I will figure out why Sunday night remains loathsome no matter how much you like your job. I suspect it’s equal parts laziness and childhood trauma from having to go back to school Monday mornings.
There you go: All I need to do is figure out how to make that insight into a self-help book, and I’ll never need to get up on Monday morning again.
2 thoughts on “The Naked Neighbor”
Boy, am I ever with you on the Sunday night loathesomeness. I like my job too, but I dread me some Sunday nights.
Douglas Adams called it (well, really 4 PM, but it extends into the evening very well) The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, and he was damn right.