Clearly, they're in the mafia

Ha, so I forgot this happened last weekend, but it's too good not to share here.

Recently, I got new next door neighbors. Now, I wouldn't have known that since they never introduced themselves to me or my other neighbor. This would normally be fine, because I'm okay with unfriendliness. I'll stare you down and not crack a smile, if you get me in the right mood. But I've seen them, so I know they exist. They are a young yuppie couple, which is not a rarity in my apartment building. The fact that they have two dogs is also not strange. BUT THESE DOGS YIP AT EVERYTHING. I can hear them when I'm in my apartment. I swear that they wait by the door for me to walk down the hall so they can yip at me. I'm sure they think that they're big, tough things behind that closed door. I normally love dogs, but these I already want to kick.

But that's not what I want to talk about here. So last weekend, I'm coming back to my apartment (probably from an Intelligentsia run) and notice that the floor around the elevator is dirty. But it's just some dirt. It wasn't like dripping with mud or some bodily fluid. When I get to my apartment, I notice that the yuppie neighbors' door is wide open. First, how are they restraining the mongrols? Second, they're talking about dirt and getting the step-ladder and other curious things. The guy yuppie is at the door. We exchange glances and I think "this could be it. first contact!" But alas, he just closes the door. What's going on? So I just go about my business and probably watch an episode or three of America's Next Top Model. Oh yeah, I think to myself, I should get the mail and see if I have any exciting birthday cards or even exciting bills. So I go to the elevator to go downstairs and there they are, guy yuppie and girl yuppie standing by the elevator. Guy Yuppie is standing next to a stepladder and Girl Yuppie has a broom or something. They don't appear to be doing anything. I just walk by and they half-way acknowledge me. Okay. I get my mail and come back up the elevator and Guy Yuppie is standing on the stepladder. Still not sure what they are doing, so I just go about my business. Nothing to see here.

Are they just that anal-retentive and are having massive panic attacks from behind their unfriendly door? Did the dirt bother their little dogs, who I assume are stand-ins for children? Are they covering up a crime scene? Perhaps they murdered a golem! Why the stepladder?

So many questions, mysterious and crazy neighbors. I'll be watching you. And your little dogs too.

I'm usually about five years too late

After several half-hearted attempts to create a personal blog, all aborted in the first 24 hours of their lives, I finally gave in. It turns out that I do have quite a bit going on with me right now and I need a repository for these thoughts.

To anyone who may actually be reading this: welcome and I apologize in advance. The future will be filled with ramblings, and they will most likely be of the shallowest kind. I will rant about TV, and probably discuss television personalities as if they were long lost friends. I will complain about my job, and probably put myself in a position to be fired. I will recount daily tales of woe, half-remembered dreams, and awkward memories. I will complain and rejoice in equal measure. I will survive.

I never did this when I was younger and angsty, so let me guarantee that this will not be a diary of any profound suffering. There will be no annoying emo-type poetry or song lyrics. I also have no desire to let you know what music I'm listening to right now. I still reject Myspace and its evils. I just kinda want to say "sup ya'll; this is me."

Consider this an experiment--let's see just how long it lasts.