OPEN LETTER TO THE CREEPY GUY ACROSS THE ROAD

Hi. How are you? Yeah, listen I know we don’t really speak enough considering you live literally within a Molotov cocktail’s throw of my house but the fact is that you give me both the heebies AND the jeebies. In spades. I know, I know we’re neighbours and all that but really this is the digital age and the fact is that I have a more significant communication networks with Icelandic septuagenarians (who, coincidentally have faster internet than us) than I do with you. You’d think that this would be a lament on the woes and ailments of a modern society, but considering the fact that I am constantly afraid that you will eat my eyeballs with a spoon, I actually like it this way.

Icelandic-woman

This woman has faster internet than either of us, and I would much rather talk to her than you.

I’ll admit I’m slightly more paranoid in general ever since that junkie broke into my house a few months ago. Let me expand on that point before I continue, I wouldn’t want people mistakenly thinking that I’m a Brooklyn ghetto street press writer. The fact is I live in Ashgrove and the junkie in question was a woman somewhere between the age of ‘dear lord if I haven’t had children by now it’s far too fucking late’ and ‘Finally! Concession price on prescription drugs.’ She also broke into my house at 7am on a Monday morning. 7am. WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? I was awakened from a delightful dream wherein Fiona Apple was serenading me whilst baking me a cake by the sound of shattering glass. I stumbled upstairs in my pyjamas and morning face to find an oldish lady rummaging through the upstairs bedroom. I was so confused that I as I pushed her out the door I even used the word ‘please.’

Old-womancartoon

Artists impression of the old junkie that broke into my house.

These events may go some distance to explaining the feeling of dread that descends on me whenever your predatory eyes settle on me and watch my every movement as I walk to my car. Much like the thought of Miley Cyrus licking my grave, it just feels wrong on so many levels. Also the other day when I crossed the road and then crossed it again so I could get to my car without going near you it was primarily because those cigarettes you were shirtlessly smoking smelled  like compressed Russian baby faeces blended with a hint of Kings Cross hooker spew. Too much? Well if that’s painful to read, try SMELLING the stuff. I mean, I’d recommend you quit, but a small and evil part of me takes some satisfaction in knowing that they will accelerate your eventual death.

Also, your girlfriend is hot. She could do better. She knows it, you know it, I know it. Just saying. Next time we see each other, instead of you staring at me like you are dreaming up ways to sautee my liver, can we not just avoid eye contact and each pretend that the other doesn’t exist like normal humans?

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