An open letter to my Spokie neighbors

Dear Neighbors,

Kathy, you've introduced yourself to me three times. Two of those times were within the span of one or two minutes - don't act surprised when I say, "I know" after you say, "I'm Kathy." And no, I'm sorry, you can't "knock on [my] door and use [my] phone" if you're "hard up later." Hard up for what, I ask you? And I know your world is much different than mine, but it made me uncomfortable that you stared at me blankly when I replied, "I'm kind of like a programmer" when you asked what my job at the software company was. Programmer = one who programs. I also won't fix the viruses on your computer. If you have a computer, why don't you have a phone? You should tell your dealer to get email.

Allen, I only knew you before as the guy who owned the creepy blue stalker van that never leaves the space next to mine. But now, you are so much more to me. Unlike Kathy's blank response, you dreamily crooned, "Cyyyyyberspaaaaace" when I told you I was a programmer. And when I was saying goodbye, that I really had to make my dinner and stop talking to you guys, you held up your open hand and said, "High five!" When I leaned in to meet it, you faked me out and slurred, "Cyberspace high five!" Yes Allen, you've gained my hesitant affection.

But please stop drinking Key Lights in mug hugs on the steps and ambushing me after work when I really just want to go inside and make my dinner.

Thanks,
Rachel