A year and a half ago, I moved into a quaint two-family home. There aren’t many historic houses in the area, and my entryway bears a unique mark of pride:
The house is a renovated cow barn, and late at night, I can almost hear the far-off cattle cries.
I haven’t told anyone this, but I stopped eating meat a few months ago, and my top theory is that the ghost cows took over my body.
In fact, now that I think about it, the cows were probably behind the sconce incident of April 2015.
But I digress.
quiet and respectful human and living neighbors, with whom I share a very, very (did I say very?) thin wall, moved out. I recall overhearing something about “carpenter bees” and “allergies,” but I was too busy Googling Yankee candle scents to appease undead livestock to fully appreciate their rationale.
Strange families were suddenly perusing the now-vacant apartment next door. This past weekend, I stepped outside and nearly collided with an older gentleman.
“You’ve probably surmised that I’m looking at the apartment,” he said in an I’m-just-a-guy-who-likes-hugs-and-hey-I-wonder-how-many-human-heads-will-fit-in-that-freezer tone.
“Ah,” I replied, avoiding eye contact and wondering why his tour included my half of the yard.
Uncle Jesse, my dog, barked loudly from inside.
Since this run-in, I haven’t been able to shake the nightmares of
what who might move in next door.
Please, help prepare me: What’s your worst neighbor story?