I recently relocated from gum to mint…at least according to the Easter-Bunny-themed map of the U.S. to your north, and I had to drive through an O.K. state to get there.

I know a total of one person at my new apartment complex, because I don’t count the girl and dog that live behind me, (the little bitch was kind enough to come and sniff my ankle – her name was “Princess” and I believe she was a Yorkie).

I don’t know many people and I don’t really like talking on the phone for extended periods of time…especially since I thoroughly enjoy the relaxation that comes after a ten-hour workday, so I am in search of a social activity that doesn’t involve alcohol [on a weeknight].

I’ve been frequenting the apartment complex’s gym, but I refuse to spark conversation over a dumbbell, because then I’ll have to start cutting my sleeves off and wearing sandals and a frayed-brim visor (on upside-down) to the gym. No thanks.

Until I decide to start going to “candle making” or “yappy hour” at the apartment complex, I’m going to have to rely on either breaking a window with a note attached to a rock attached to an apology for breaking the window, or stick to what I’m doing.

I live on the second floor, which provides me plenty of time from the moment I hear a pair of exhausted high-heels, to get to my front door and position my left eye right over the small, circular, convex window that separates me from the [apartment neighbors] world – my peephole.

Even when I factor in the peephole’s effect on body shape, I must admit that there are some odd-looking folks that come past my apt.

From now on, I should really keep both eyes open from the opposite side of my one-inch window and find out what a little face time with the neighbors can produce.

Speaking of produce, I’m out of broccoli. Oh! The grocery store is filled with people…