I haven’t got a coffee cup left.

Hello friends, readers, and lingering lurkers. I know my activity has proved scarce as of late yet again. School and its side-effects (a busy schedule and exhaustion… Or: “Go away, Life; I’m through with you” syndrome) is responsible for this offense. Again. Like always. Fortunately, however, I do go on break in two weeks, even if that break means only one class-free week before spring quarter starts. Until then, I’m afraid I have to extend my hiatus of sorts out a little further. I will start preparing for finals tomorrow, (possibly) followed by NNAAP/NACES exam preparation. (There is also the matter of my NAR application, which I’m late on. If you don’t know what that is, it simply means that I am successful in setting myself up for new stress.) Nearly complete in taking the NAC course, few things have made themselves discernible with a pinch of confusion glazing my sight, but one thing I do know: the route I’ve slowly been walking down has split apart.

For what might as well be the thousandth time, switching over into an English major sounds friendlier than what I’m currently doing with my life. Although jobs and qualifications of an RN and that of an NAC are different, I don’t feel like this is something my heart no longer wishes to pursue.  Otherwise, from this point forward, it will be Brain combating against My Utter Lack of Enthusiasm. Like the rest of my classmates who chose the same facility for our clinicals, I was handed a job application. It’s something I’m considering with much debate for now. I feel that taking this NAC course will be pointless otherwise, yet it means passing the exams for certification — something I find more of an annoyance but also slightly nerve-wracking. (Performing in front of judges is not an event I enjoy. What is that blocking recall on all that I have studied? Ha, oh look, it’s a memory blank! Thank you, Panic.)

ecard failure

Whether or not I decide to carry on with certification, there is also the matter of switching majors. It is likely that when I return fall quarter, I may not begin my trek through science pre-reqs like I’d planned. Regardless, it’s a back-and-forth issue I’m eternally locked in. The only way out is to try. In all honestly, I fear my advisor. Last we spoke, she thought judging all of my past English courses in comparison to my dire lack of science was reason enough to deem me unfit for the RN program. I’ve neatly avoided her since.

In other news (and by that I mean book & reading & blogging):

  • YA lit, with brute force, is strangling me. I’m not done with it yet, and I don’t think I ever will be done, but I’m craving classic literature as of late. Just recently, I picked up my copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. As such, I’d like to review said case. After I’m finished with and have reviewed Showtime (which was given to me for review), my eyes are locked on the likes of Persuasion and Jane Eyre — even Frankenstein. Classic invasion.
  • I will review The Gathering Storm! After finals, though, and I will say that I look forward to reading the next books in the Katerina trilogy.
  • Carrie from The Mad Reviewer nominated me for both the Very Inspiring and Liebster Blog awards. Thank you! I will be compiling my own nominee list and will ideally write posts over break.
  • I’m re-reading Harry Potter! Finally. As some may know, I never finished the last book, but that’s going to change this year.
  • In light of my absence here, I have been over at Tumblr updating nie zu viele more often. Hoorah.
  • The Booker has easily become my new favorite bookish blog. I suggest everyone check it out, because I love her abundance of book recommendations.
  • Book giveaways: I’m considering doing one soon, perhaps next month. I’m still deciding on which book(s) and how to go about the giveaway, but keep an eye out!
  • I am most definitely forgetting things I wanted to say, but that aside…
  • Nick Harkaway’s Angelmaker looks like a great deal of fun, even if I haven’t a clue when I’ll have time to read it.

I regret the deficient number of book-related posts, I hate to say it, but I will see you all by the end of winter (she says, disappointed, and cries)!

I’m tired and I–

I want to go to bed.

(Do I get plus or minus points for inserting a snippet of The Smiths’ Asleep in my title? The song sounds infinitely more depressing than I feel, but no other lyric can do my exhaustion justice like a Smiths lyric can. I am tired, and I really do want to go to bed.

Plus or minus points for a mini side-ramble with a partly-imagined audience in parenthesis?)

Classes are having their way with me again, and my whole being aches for a good rest. Last week I found myself stuck in frigid temperatures wearing a coat that is hardly useful in fending off -6 ºC to -1 ºC, special thanks to: a closed-down campus, my frozen-shut car, and roadside assistance rejection. My late class ends roughly at 9 PM. It is also at 9 PM that all buildings on campus officially close and lock. Although I did manage to pry the passenger door open — albeit: after some time ticked by — may I advise anyone experiencing a frosty season to create back-up transportation plans? If anything goes “majorly wrong” with my car at an indecent hour, my back-up plans have remained as follows:

Call Mom! Mom always knows what to do. Why don’t I ever listen to her? Wait, nope. Mom doesn’t know what to do? She doesn’t have almighty words of wisdom to cure my wretched situation? “What do you want me to do? You made me miss the end of Tangled. Again.” Okay.

If, for whatever reason, plan A fails, I switch to plan B: Grandma! “You can’t get into your car? Well why not? I don’t know what to tell you, Raya. [Exhales audible sigh, as if to say, ‘Sitting at home and inside where it’s warm is tough work; check your privileges, girl,’ or ‘You woke me up for this?’]” My grandma is not among the helpful kind of people, I know this. This a woman who once asked me “why” I locked my keys in the car. I call my grandma for consoling purposes. Unfortunately, she is as consoling as she is helpful, which brings me to plan C: AAA.

But, oh no! Frozen-shut cars are not considered roadside emergencies?! Frozen-shut doors are of lesser significance than keys sitting inside a locked car?! “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” said the man on the phone, “but unfortunately–” Well, excuse you, AAA, but fortunately that raucous sound is the sound of angels sweeping down from a distant heaven coming to save me from hypothermia (and from the creepy man hiding by the bushes who believes he’s well-disguised in shadow). That sound is also known as my car alarm, because I just pulled the passenger door open. Ha, ha ha.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha. That is what personal triumph sounds like.

This experience taught me that I should hate AAA. I should hate AAA until another roadside emergency occurs and they hold up their end of the deal. I pay membership and they help. Isn’t that how it should work?

An additional lesson I took from this unpleasantry is: be prepared. I just haven’t figured out how I should prepare to un-freeze my car, unless details to worship the sun count. In any case, I wound up sick from the cold that night and I feel gross. I feel gross topped with TIRED and a side dish of EXTRA GROSS, a.k.a. “flu vaccine.” I know — people are not supposed to receive the vaccination if they are already sick, but I wanted to ensure immunity before venturing into the land of Sick People in the country of Nursing Homes. Clocking in clinical hours starting in two weeks, you know.

While this post is a great summary of the past three weeks, here are class notes to further the accuracy and representation of my mental state:

Class Notes

Under normal circumstances my handwriting is legible. This, however, is under the “Me vs. a Four Hour Lecture” circumstance.

I can’t say I am impressing my instructor. How can she miss the one semiconscious student who is nearly falling out of her chair every five minutes? No one should sit through four hours of straight-out lecture. I need to move. I was born with the need to physically move every fifteen to thirty minutes. It’s crushing me, on the inside.

I haven’t died yet,

Call me Motivated (To Do Nothing)

Midnight Coffee Monster begged for an update soon after my last post (dated Sep. 26th, 2012 — a date which causes my face to cringe into an ugly, wrinkled thing for a head. This is true; I do not lie. Especially when I consider the length of time that has since passed). Unfortunately for this blog, as well as for devoted subscribers (i.e., imaginary creatures created for my own blogging comfort), I find it easy to ignore things (and people). The reason is simple: Motivation flew off to an unknown destination and forgot to take me with it. Motivation is living it up in some place more obscure than Waldo’s hide-outs and I’m…

Failing statistics, eating cake, failing to dutch braid, finishing my Nobuta wo Produce obsession, not finishing my other Asian drama obsessions, and generally accomplishing small deeds in life, like:

Original melodramatic post brought to you by: Raya

And I can’t forget Thursday morning’s adventure:

I love the taste of future heart disease and clogged arteries.

In summary, these are my excuses for not updating sooner. My apologies (sincerely, because I miss everyone here on WordPress). Although I swear on every book I own and have read that doing poorly in statistics rains stress! pressure! and: stress! Statistics, I am afraid, is more of a foreign language than my German class. I treat the last couple of exam grades in math as things so unacceptable, so embarrassing, that: What, are you joking? Those aren’t mine… It’s equivalent to the time when I was nine and enjoyed tormenting my mother in the grocery store. To Mom’s horror, I enjoyed re-enacting Riverdance. “Stop it,” she’d hiss, and smile warily at passersby, as if to say, “That’s not my child…” Unlike my stubborn personality, I hope my statistics grades do not stay consistent but rather leap to improve. I hope, I hope. There’s another exam next week, after all (which I need to study for…).

But don’t worry. I didn’t come here with the intention to bore all readers about my mathematical woes. Instead, I’d like share giveaway wins and books I purchased last month!

The following are all books I won, the first 3 from GoodReads First Reads:

As I do with most books these days, I sat Celona’s novel down after 70 or so pages — a choice made not because Y is a poorly written book (because I don’t believe it is), but because I hit a reading slump. No matter how brilliantly written, I can’t seem to finish a book without a push of effort, Hulk-strength edition. Slowly, I feel my book-love coming back, but I feel it’s in direct correlation to my math grades. Until then, I fear all these books will sit unread for the time being (with the exception of Sumo — a very fast read), but interest in them still holds.

Lastly, I mustn’t forget:

I won a copy of Jiménez’s The Circuit just by commenting over at Vamos a Leer, a blog created and run by a wonderful group of people from the LAII at the UNM. Weeks have passed since I’ve read a post from anyone’s blog, but I can always expect to discover new titles to check out at Vamos a Leer. Count on this blog to have great books to share (and giveaways!), so head over and give it a read-over — I don’t think it will disappoint you.

In addition to the previously mentioned books, I also purchased — for the first time ever! — used books (online). While I am not inexperienced in whipping cash out for used books, I have only done this in-store. You know, once I have flipped-through pages and examined the damage level. I must say that going through on the decision to buy used books online felt uneasy, because there is little else in this world that will force me into sighing non-stop for hours than a horribly damaged book. Not only that, but: Hey! I spent MONEY on this! I adore the aged look of vintage books, but I also adore quality — more so if the book is not vintage.

Curious to see what the mailman stuffed inside the mailbox?

First up: The Gathering Storm (Katerina #1) by Robin Bridges! Although the description read “USED LIBRARY BOOK,” the seller shipped me an ARC edition instead. (In fact, I received several old ARCS, which were not part of the books’ descriptions.) I should hope there are no major differences between the ARC and final copy… Does anyone know?

I discovered this book on Savindi’s blog, The Streetlight Reader, and I couldn’t fight curiosity off after reading her reviews. I know she loves this trilogy so far, and I hope to enjoy it just as much! Also, as an additional plus: Russian setting! If you ask me why, I cannot supply an answer to explain my fascination for not only the WWII era, but German settings and, yes, anything Russian-influenced. My interests are what they are.


***If you feel at all interested, you can find Savindi’s reviews on The Gathering Storm and The Unfailing Light by clicking on the respective links.

As you can see, I also ordered a copy of China Miéville’s Un Lun Dun. Per accident, I stumbled on Un Lun Dun‘s GoodReads page while on a hunt for steampunk-like reads. Now, I have no idea how steampunk this book is, but I find the summary irresistible and look forward to the instant I decide to pick it up! My only complaint? It’s another ARC, which — once again — is not what the seller promised.

I sat on my bed for a long time. I sat and sat. Something was wrong inside me, I felt it inside my stomach and I didn’t know what to do. So I layed down on the floor. I stuck out my pointer finger and pointed it at my head. And I pushed down my thumb. And killed myself.

— Howard Buten, When I was Five I Killed Myself

The strong sensation of excitement that literally feels as though it’s coursing through my body cannot be put into proper words. To clearly define that giddy rush, I mean. All us book nerds experience it often, so I know you know what I mean.  These two books, my friends, are all I thought about for months. Does anyone remember a post way back when, and I had checked Crown Duel out from the library? What did I say about it again?

Either I finish the library’s copy or I buy it, which may happen anyway. Now that the book is in my possession, I don’t want to part with it.

Oh, right. Well I bought it.

Unlike the other two books, Buten’s and Smith’s books could not have been described better. Crown Duel displays more wear and tear than I would like, but I’m otherwise very pleased. Buten’s novel, I should add, is in particularly good shape all things considered. It’s the oldest of the bunch, yet — and I would not feel surprised — it is possibly the least touched, as I don’t believe it’s a well-known title (at least not in the U.S.). Aside from a few page-skims, Smith’s books remains unread by my eyes, but I hope for an expect to get lost in one fantastic adventure. As for Howard Buten’s quirky little novel, I did start reading it. The narrative is different from what I expected, but I am in a place where it is still too early to state my overall impressions. (I read up to chapter four and stopped. Ideally, I can have a do-nothing-but-read day and read Buten’s book.) Still, I feel confident enough to say that When I was Five I Killed Myself is as fresh as the title.

O, mine eyes! I know the phrase: “Do not judge a book by its cover.” But who thought up this book design? I’m talking about Burroughs’ Running with Scissors. I don’t judge a story by its cover, but I certainly judge the cover. Quite possibly, this is the ugly duckling that will never become a swan on my bookshelf. No. This is the ugly duckling (and never a swan) on my bookshelf. It was never intended to, of course, but this particular seller sent me a different copy than the image provided online. Disappointment weighs heavily. Other than that, I had hoped to read this last month for the LGBT reading event, but it unfortunately arrived too late — near the end of the month, actually, and besides: I had exams to study for. Such is life for students.

Tales of the Madman Underground was purchased from the same seller that shipped Burroughs’ book, and unlike the former, this book came as described — for the most part. The marker-squiggle that mars the cover doesn’t make me feel happy, but it’s in otherwise good condition.

**IN CASE YOU WISH TO KNOW: I purchased all these books on AbeBooks. Like the rest of my German classmates, I hunted for the cheapest-but-still-in-good-condition textbooks when I realized: AbeBooks isn’t just for textbooks?! Wow-zah. Temptation proved impossible to resist, and that is the story of how six additional books made it on the bill.

“Understanding Statistics,” it says. “It’s easy,” it says. “Why are you stabbing me?” it says.

Well, you guys, that’s all for now. I’m sad that I could not update sooner, but my life has been a mixture of busy and lazy and no blogging. As for weekly book memes, it seems Recommend A… is at a halt.  This is sad news, guys, because it was one of my favorite memes! However, if time allows, I will start TTT posts again on Nov. 20th. I cannot promise consistent book reviews, or even regular posting for that matter.

To pass my last math pre-requisite class with decency (and dignity) is something I need to treat seriously, and! If luck favors me, I will be taking the 8-credit nursing assistant course, which starts in January. (I goofed, and now I’m forced to hand in my application on the last day possible. This course is first-come, first-serve. I pray there’s a spot left.) After these two particular classes, I will finish the rest of my science courses — I dread the impending doom of chemistry. I have yet to hear one kind comment about any of the instructors.

But — before I forget! — I do have some posts planned. Keep an eye out! I just have to write them… and then post them.

Otherwise: I hope all my fellow bloggers are still around, writing, reading, and blogging havoc. I miss reading ALL of your posts, but I miss talking to you all even more. Leave me things write me comments what are you reading and how is life please don’t let crickets fill this silence.


Horton Street’s new Gladys Kravitz or Norman Bates?

Knowledge I have acquired about my upstairs neighbor includes the following: his name is Harold, he maintains a companionship with approximately two cats, and he did not give me permission to use his real name in this post. In fact, I did not ask. I also know that when Harold walks from room to room, his feet beat so heavily on the floor that I am afraid he will crush through our barrier and I’ll find half a human leg poking out from the ceiling. Harold also enjoys spending time in bathtubs—with water, of course. I know this because a) I hear the faucet frequently spew bath water and, b) unnervingly, my ears also catch sounds of him squishing his manbody inside the tub as water periodically splashes. During Harold’s residency as my neighbor, I have also learned to infer that he was not born into a family in which people wash their hands after using the bathroom.

(Side note to Harold: basic hygiene, man. It’s one thing to take six baths a day and allow your body to mingle with its own grime, but to not wash your hands after furiously urinating for several minutes? (Yes, I went there. I am not holding back. I am not holding back anything.)  Germs exist, and as much as I would rather not know where your hands have been and what they have touched, I can’t help but painfully imagine. If there comes a day I must choose between shaking your hand or shredding my arm in a large meat grinder, I choose the latter. It’s not entirely my fault, either. See, I come from a family obsessed with annihilating bad germs and quadruple-checking to make sure the house has been thoroughly sanitized. Plus, I am your downstairs neighbor. I hear things, okay. I hear everything. So go—go wash your filthy hands or I will leave post-it note reminders on your door.)

More than anything, however—beyond multiple baths a day, poor hygiene, and heavy feet—I have learned that Harold is not only the neighborhood’s Gladys Kravitz, but a general weirdo who thinks neighbors should follow his every wish so that he can have the perfect living environment suited to his needs. In short: rather than accepting neighbors as they are, he expects neighbors to adjust to him and for him. Harold is better off living in some remote cottage in the middle of a grassy field, because unlike Harold believes, most neighbors learn to put up with each other. It’s how neighbors co-exist. But Harold? No. He can’t co-exist with others; others must co-exist with him.

I first encountered Harold outside on a chilly spring night. He was sporting shorts, a white t-shirt, socks that stretched halfway up his calves, and a balding head. Prior to that, he’d been abusing our front door, knocking so loudly with frightening persistence that I turned to my mother and mouthed, “CALL THE POLICE.” It was nearing midnight, so who in their right mind would open that door? If I had opened that door I could have been greeted with an ax to the head and no hope of a tomorrow. Guided by the light of our back porch (thanks, Mom), Harold crept around a corner and finally greeted his downstairs neighbors. As it turns out, Harold locked himself outside and was desperate to find a way back in. Using my $5 Starbucks gift card, he somehow slid the lock back and the chilly spring night lost its hold. First impression: new in town (as per his statement that there were no friends or family he could call) and a little too chatty for my liking but a decent guy. He even dropped by the following day to say thanks and handed over two $5 Starbucks gift cards. Nice guy, right?

A few nights later as my mother smoked her nightly cigarette on the porch, a snobbish voice flooded out his living room window: “Excuse me. Excuuuuse me. Your cigarette smoke wafts through my window…” Keep in mind that 1)my mother is not the only neighbor who smokes and 2)if she were to smoke out front as opposed to the back, the smoke would only drift into his bedroom. I imagine he was expecting a response similar to “I’m terribly sorry!” followed by “I will make sure to walk a block down so that my smoke can bother someone else instead” or “There’s nothing like calling a bad habit quits when your neighbor points it out, thanks!” So when she instead responded with a flat-toned “Sorry,” he grumbled back: “It stinks up my entire place!” before slamming his window shut.

From that night on, whenever he smelled cigarette smoke—whether it came from my mom or not—his windows slammed shut with such force that I felt 9.0 earthquake vibrations. And it’s not as though I don’t share his irritation. Cigarette smoke doesn’t smell like a rose garden, but until cigarettes are illegal… Well, tough luck. My impression after the first impression: passive-aggressive jerk.

After the cigarette tiff and window-slamming (which lasted until fall winds arrived) I made it a point to avoid Harold. The likelihood of me feigning a polite smile in his presence had zero chance probability, and there’s nothing like making oneself look like the #1 Neighborhood Asshat by shooting dirty looks and snarling. My avoid-Harold-streak soon ended, however, when I awoke to the sound of running water upstairs in his bathroom.

Since the water had been running for over an hour, I concluded that my dear neighbor Harold drowned to death in the very bathtub he loved all too much. A great way to way to go for someone intent on bathing in his own body filth if you ask me. But then, slightly to my dismay (as I am not keen on idea of living in or near places where people have died), I realized his car was out of sight. Thirty minutes after I had reported to the condo association, “I think my upstairs neighbor left a faucet running,” he zipped home—not bothering to turn off his engine—pounded up the stairs to his door, rushed inside and the sound of running water was no more. Five minutes later I found him knocking at my front door: “I think we should exchange numbers in case of emergencies. We can call each other directly.”

According to Harold, the association told his work, “Water is wrecking havoc at Harold’s place. Hope he enjoys a flooded bathroom.”

Point taken; my number was relinquished. Little did I know that “any bothersome noise sounding off in ‘early’ morning hours” is an emergency. Last Friday morning he called:

“There’s a rumbling through the floor. Do you have a machine going? It sounds like a machine. Well, if could turn it off… because it’s 7:30. It’s really early in the morning, thanks. If it’s not you then I am sorry to disturb you.”

Well I am sorry that the sound of my morning shower disturbs you, Harold. Really. I’ll make sure that I never take on a job that calls for morning shifts, and I will drop my morning class pronto so that you may get extra hours of shut-eye, even though it’s a weekday and most people are up early on weekday mornings. Because, you know, people have jobs, places to go, people to see, etc. Some people just enjoy getting up early—imagine that. Regardless, I’m certain that a shower does not cause floors to rumble. Out and squeaky-clean by 7:40, I heard nothing—absolutely nothing—but shushed silence.

This is not the first time he has called about a troublesome noise. Last month he called at 8:00 am: “I’ve been hearing a very loud banging sound four several hours now. Do you hear it, too? It’s very loud.” Note: I am not a morning person. No one should ever speak to me in the morning until I have had coffee; otherwise, I will greet an unknowing victim with slurred words muffling profanities as if said person is the cause of my morning distress. Besides, I had been in and out of restless sleep since 6 AM that morning, though groggy and very tired, and had heard nothing but his loud footsteps booming through the ceiling. I was far too exhausted to recognize what a “Harold” was doing on my phone, anyway. Why would I want to discuss imaginary sounds at 8 AM? Because I don’t, not ever.

But I can easily tolerate his voice messages about odd morning sounds (which no one but him seems to hear). Above everything else—his expectations that neighbors abide by his requests, that he stomps more heavily than any elephant herd, that I can hear a hackgagcough emit from his mouth with a sound so disgusting that an involuntary urge to hurl takes control—it’s his old-fashioned window-spying that ranks at number one on my list of “Things I Dislike About Harold.”

Mid-January, snow hit our region and I was unprepared. Needless to say that I had neglected snow tires and remained inside for one entire week. On the second day of our almost-snowmageddon, I made the poor choice of venturing out beyond my little community. With a pinch of trouble backing out, I successfully drove my way out to the main roads, anxiety in full-gear. Two hours later as I attempted to park, snow trapped my front tires and nothing but the roar of the car’s engine and spinning tires would budge. And that’s when I saw him: the bedroom’s light pinned his silhouette to the blinds, a section pried open by his fingers. Harold’s eyes stared down from his window as he watched, watched, and watched me struggle for ten whole minutes. Under normal circumstances, I might have thought he was merely concerned about my car tearing into his car. But this was not a normal circumstance, because this was not the first time I had caught him spying.

I had almost forgiven him for his window-peeking earlier in the day when he offered me his ice scraper. Golly gee, how nice, I thought. (I had also neglected to buy an ice scraper and thought a dust pan would suffice. I was wrong.) But seeing his eyes bulge out from his open blinds as I kicked snow from under my tires, I realized: he didn’t exit his home by happenstance just to shovel snow off a car he didn’t plan on driving for another five days. Oh, no. He knew I needed that ice scraper because he’d been spying through the obvious crack in his blinds.

It is official: I feel irked. I feel like I need to search every crevice of my bathroom and bedroom to make sure there are no spy-holes, like in Psycho.

But as it so happens, I am also a Gladys Kravitz, though I possess much more stealthy neighbor-spying tactics. For one, a person should never press their body against a curtain-covered window with the lights on. Lights cast shadow; it’s common sense. Secondly, what does Harold think the tiny holes in blinds are for? They’re multifunctional. Not only do they serve as space for string to lace through, but they are essentially a window’s many peep-holes. If someone shoves half  of his or her face between parted blinds, that person has completely blown the Kravitz cover. Besides, my Kravitz habits barely touch on or even border the line that crosses from curiosity to “I am a semi-stalker and total freak.” I am a paranoid individual, so I have legitimate excuses for some of my odd behavior. The only times I make use of window-peeping is when I hear odd sounds outside my window or when someone is beating up my front door, because a) I am positive it’s a serial killer and b) therefore briefly morph into Gladys, ready a knife and prepare to dial 9-1-1, and then sit on the couch for two hours until I’m sure the could-be-killer is gone. But Harold? What is this? What are you doing, Harold? If I were to barge into his place, I half-expect to find the rotting corpse of his dead mother in the second bedroom. This is creepy. Almost Norman-Bates-creepy.

Harold is creepy. Harold is a creepy, passive-aggressive jerk who hears imaginary sounds, and I firmly believe these are the reasons he remains alone in life. He will remain alone for all of time. I bet my next five coffee canisters that even his beloved cats will leave him.

And if Harold ever happens to stumble across this odd post, what will he do about it? It is one hell of an awkward conversation I would love to have.

Edit: In light of witnessing Harold exit his home with who I am most certain is his man-lover, perhaps he is not so alone as I originally thought. Maybe the only rotten corpse one can find in his home is that of a dying apple. Regardless, I am still just as paranoid as he is a creepy, passive-aggressive jerk who hears imaginary sounds and makes for an annoying neighbor.

Edit 2: Never mind. I do not want that awkward conversation.