How Harriet the Spy Changed my Life.

When I was six years old, Harriet the Spy was cool.  Like way cool.  She made stalking look easy, fun, and worthwhile.  I wanted to be her.

I started taking a notebook around with me at recess, and documenting the playground gossip.  I learned that Austin had a crush on Carla, and Russell and Abish were kind of a thing.  I learned secrets about Courtney, and heard that Mike got cafeteria clean-up duty for pelting a girl in the face with lettuce at lunch.  He also claimed that he got paid two dollars for holding the lunch lady's hand.

I felt so powerful.

Years later, my interest in spying has not faltered.  Now my neighbors are my targets.  My neighbors would probably not recognize me if I knocked on their door, or waved to them in the parking lot.  But, I know who they are.

Here is a sampling of my findings:

• The foreign exchange crew just moved out.  It probably didn't take a lot of time, because they didn't have furniture.    Instead, they just lined their shoes all around the perimeter of their front room.  Foreigner 1 owned the fanciest car in the lot, and wore various shades of the same Ralph Lauren Polo shirt every time I saw him.  Foreigner 2 smoked like a chimney, and liked to leave his cigarette butts behind the stair well.  Foreigner's 1&2 were friends with Foreigner's 4, 5, & 6 who live just south of 1&2.  I will miss creepin' on their interactions.

• My other neighbor is a hoarder   When I first moved into my complex, I was a little creeped out.  He had about ten Mountain Dew bottles full of some dark fluid next to his apartment door.  I thought he was brewing moonshine.  After further inspection, it appears he was just collecting motor oil.  Next to the motor oil were two car seats, some tools, and a basketball.  He keeps a canoe and some tires next to his apartment.  I'm assuming my managers told him to get rid of the stuff on his porch--because it suddenly disappeared. . . but now it's back, and he has built a shed around it (and more) in one of the parking spaces.  Classy.  

• Every week, the sheriff makes a visit a few doors down.  He doesn't knock--he just walks in.  Like he owns the place.  At first I thought maybe he lives there . . . but no, he doesn't.  Then, my mind jumped to more scandalous things like, "Hey.  Maybe he's having a romantic relationship with one of the tenants."  But, lets face it, he's probably just checking up on them.  Like, random drug checks, or whatever.

Honestly, I could go on another few bullet points, or so . . . but I feel like I've already validated to you all how creepy I am.  

So, we'll leave it at that.  

Do you guys ever . . . you know . . . creep on your neighbors?  I wanna know.