Dear Neighbor,

Hi, it’s me, the girl who runs by your house twice a day.  You know the one, I’m usually wearing a Jayhawks or a Royals shirt, and I think I leave a trail of cat hair in my wake.  How are you?  Good?  Glad to hear that.

Not that you asked, but I’m doing fine, too.  You’re not asking now, and you also didn’t ask when I took a ridiculous pratfall this morning in front of your house.  I’m not blaming you for not repairing your driveway, I guess I should have been paying more attention to what was in front of me rather than enjoying the beautiful day.  Nobody’s fault but my own, but I tripped on the crack in your driveway and flew face first into the asphalt, landing on my elbows and knees in a pile of loose gravel, pinecones, and dead pine needles.

Only Br’er Rabbit could fall into this and come out unscathed.

I’ll admit, that part didn’t feel great.  When your blood is pumping hard, even from a leisurely run, it starts pouring out of even the smallest cut like you’ve been stabbed with the tines of a barbecue poker.  So almost instantly having my arms and legs covered with sticky, greasy blood wasn’t really your fault.  Neither was the road rash I got on the side of my face or the bruise on my hip from where my keys jammed into my pelvis.

Truly, neighbor, none of this is your fault.  However, I’m not sure standing in your driveway, pointing, and laughing hysterically was an appropriate response.

Listen, I like a good rollicking disastrous fall to the ground as much as the next guy.  Entire industries of blooper shows have been built around this very thing, well, this and men getting hit in the balls.  It’s funny.  It’s okay to laugh, but it might also be a smart idea to express some concern for the person who fell in your driveway, if only because I might be the litigious sort.

Neighbor, it’s not like we’re complete strangers, you and I.  You’re the Guy Who Lives In The House With The Lady Who Has That Cool Husky Named Maya.  I’ve talked to your wife, pet your dog, even waved to you in the evenings after you return home from work and you’re getting your mail.  Maybe you even have a nickname for me, though today yours got shortened from the above description to the more succinct and pointed “Asshole.”

I may not be the most graceful of athletes, I fall and run into things quite often even when I’m just walking through my living room.  That being the case, you don’t know anything about me, Asshole, and I had to lay on the ground for at least thirty seconds before I managed to pull myself back to my feet.  When I stood up and brushed the dirt and grime from my wounds, you were still laughing, doubled over actually, leaning against your Range Rover, unable to support your own weight, you were so heartily amused.

You’re this guy. I doubt you’ve ever seen a musical, but trust me, you just got burned.

Asshole, just because you’re tall and thin and handsome and own a house in a neighborhood I’m barely financially solvent enough to be allowed to run through doesn’t mean it’s okay to laugh at me when I take a tumble and not offer so much as a hand to help me up.  Hell, the least you could have done was grab the hose from your yard and ask if I needed a dousing.  Though I guess that wasn’t actually the least you could have done, because you literally did the least you could, which was nothing.

It’s okay, though.  I’m fine, these scrapes will heal, and it’s likely not to be the last tumble I take while out for a run.  However, if I happen fall on your property again, it will be significantly less painful because I plan on jogging right through your carefully manicured beds of Oriental poppies, geraniums, and bearded irises on each pass.  That loamy soil looks pretty soft.  On days where I don’t have the motivation to run, I’ll think about tramping through your yard, and that will get me out the door.  Perhaps I’ll take a small bag of cat shit with me and instead of tossing it in the dumpster, generously sprinkle it throughout your yard.  I have an endless supply.  I also might need to stop and rest next to your Range Rover and press my sweaty forehead to its spotlessly clean window.  Who knows what else I might need to do when I get near your house?  The only limit is my imagination, which should scare the holy hell out of you.  My imagination knows no bounds, my brain is a freakin’ rat’s nest.

If there is a way to capture this and get it into your house, trust me, I will figure out how to do it.

I hope my misfortune got your Sunday off to a joyous and hysterical start.  It’s nice to know that I can inspire unmitigated pleasure with something that comes as naturally to me as falling flat on my face.  Better be careful, though.  Karma has a way of bringing these things back to you, Asshole.  And even if karma doesn’t, I’ve a bit of a persistent nature, and long after my blood on your driveway washes away, my memory of this moment will linger.

I hope you enjoy the lovely ammonia scent of cat piss, Asshole.  You’re going to be smelling a lot of it.

Sincerely,

Nicole Angeleen

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Nicole Angeleen

Nicole Angeleen is an author, and she enjoys reading, being rabidly fanatic about Kansas City sports teams and constantly complaining about how terrible they are, traveling, joining rewards clubs, and yo-yo dieting. She has never been to North Dakota.

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