My favorite neighbor is this overweight white guy with bright red hair who every day stands painting in his yard. He has an easel set up facing the road (with his back to the street), but he isn’t painting his house or anything within his view. He is painting legless women or knights with drawn swords or disembodied heads floating in big blue boxes. And they all look like they’ve been drawn by a 4th grader.

Sometimes when he is not painting he is riding his stationary bike on the front porch. He huffs and puffs in his cut-off sweatpants and sleeveless t-shirts. He rides is sort of slowly.

Any time he is outside he is blaring his tiny, plastic boom box. It looks to only have a tape player. Today as I jogged past I heard the familiar strains of Schubert. The VCB tells me he’s usually rocking G’n'R.

On his car he’s painted Slimer from the Ghostbusters. And other various phrases and sayings. There is also a mysterious flag on it. Whenever I walk or bike past him he always drops his head in this very gentlemanly, but overly dramatic manner.

I love my favorite neighbor.*

*I don’t, however, love seeing my favorite neighbor’s tremendously hairy ass crack as he bends over to select another brush.

How to tell that the menstrual cycles of all the girls you work with are at the same time every month:

Your manager comes into the dining room to tell you that there is only one piece of chocolate cake left in the house. At which time you notice every single waitress hefting a forkful of chocolate cake into her mouth.