I live in a very quiet, peaceful neighborhood, and my neighbors mostly just keep to themselves. But there’s something strange about the nice old lady across the street. She sounds harmless right? Well one fine afternoon I stepped outside to do some tree trimming, but before I could so much as pluck off a leaf she runs outside and yells “Hey, you need a ladder?” I could do nothing but stand there and wonder if she’s got some kind of telekineplectic connection to my brain. We bought curtains soon after that.
Update: The plot thickens
I’m in the middle of a process that I call the most depressing thing in the world. I’m buying a house. I’d be happy to just pay for the house, but that’s not how a mortgage works. In the end I will have paid enough money for two and a half houses. (That’s more than 2 million Ramen Noodles!) The word “mortgage” begins with the first four letters of the word “mortuary” for a reason. You’ll be paying it off until you’re dead. I’ve signed a paper that says I’ll be dumping my income into a black hole for the next 30 years. Other fees include my firstborn son, my soul, a bucket of pretty pennies, two arms and a leg, and any other expression you can think of that means a lot of money.