I'd be lying to say that when I noticed about ten billion small yellow post-its attached to the wall across from my apartment door (presumably for the benefit of the resident of the apartment across the way, from the doorway of which I’d heard a distraught woman yell "Go away! I want you out of here!" earlier) that I wasn't tempted to read them, but I figured it was none of my never-mind, so I resisted the urge.
But I figure when you're finding them a couple days after the fact scattered on different floors of the building, they're fair game.
I recovered two, one of which read: "X, I knocked 3x!" The other contained a phone number.
I can't help but feel that the juicier post-its were dispensed with.
Also, there are faint streaks of what, if I am not mistaken, appears to be blood on my doorframe.
All of this and more could be yours at the Villages at Turtle Rock! They should put that in their brochures, right next to the glossy picture of the Business Center.
God as my witness: next stop is a shack in a remote corner of New Mexico. Running water and indoor toilets are beginning to seem frivolous next to the opportunity not to have neighbors.
On a more "up" note (although I don't know that preceding notes were down ones, so much as candidates for the I Swear, the Novel Just Writes Itself file), I am keeping with the bhangra lessons, and while I think it's safe to say I did not miss my calling as a Bollywood star, I am having a grand old time Dancing Like No One's Watching, and I think if I keep it up—along with the yoga—I will finally develop some muscle definition. I like the idea that the older I get, the better shape I'm in.
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