My upstairs neighbor subscribes to Playboy. I know this because I sometimes see the conspicuous black-bagged magazine, which probably stands out more than a naked chick would.
Anyway, I just found out that one of my childhood idols posed for this month's Playboy. (That link is not work-safe. Unless Playboy is safe at your work.)
How weird is that? I used to dance on my bed to "Electric Youth," singing into my hairbrush. And right now my upstairs neighbor might be... ugh, I can't even say it... you know... getting lost in her eyes.
In other news of who-gets-what-mail-in-my-building, I have done enough research to declare that the woman living on the bottom floor definitely has a QVC addiction.
And I never see her husband around anymore, so I have a theory that maybe she killed him. And she lives on the bottom floor, so she could've easily buried him in a crawlspace or something. And now she's spending all of his life insurance money on QVC crap. Then, finally, today, she came over to me while I was picking up my mail, and asked if there was any mail for her husband.
Yes, that would have been my perfect opportunity to catch her. I could've at least asked, "Oh, how's your husband doing? Haven't seen him around!" and then stared at her suspiciously. But I didn't.
(Besides, you know that if I did find any proof, it'd be followed by a "Would you report this to the police?" post on this blog.)
Ok, no more detective books for me for a while.