THERE SEEMS TO BE SOMETHING ABOUT THE VIEW OF MY APARTMENT BALCONY from the driveway that sends half my loved ones shouting my name like one of their legs is on fire. I'll be at my improvised standing desk (thanks Donald Rumsfeld) by the window, wondering why so many gay people lisp, when the sound of my own name will shred the chill, and turn me instantly from a light-hearted mama's boy marvelling quietly to himself at the world's wondrousness to the kind of man who understands suicide bombers. Trembling, I wait twenty or so seconds. If I hear my name even once more, I won't shout back, I won't walk to the balcony, and I may not even answer the door. Every insouciant (look it up, it's perfect) shout from you is a concurrent life sentence in the echo chamber, where all you hear is the sound of my name reverberating around your cold, lonely ass as I eat, drink and make merry upstairs with visitors who somehow mustered up the necessary calf strength to clamber the 18 steps to my door and knock like a fucking human. If you're too idle to even shout my name more than once, I listen for the sounds of movement to indicate that you're walking upstairs, or away. In their absence, I assume your motor skills have failed completely and you're laying in a pile in the middle of my driveway, and I pour another drink. I suggest you make friends with the Pakistani family downstairs before I fly out the window and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon you into the concrete. Or go by Janet's; she loves shouting.

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