At this point, I'm not convinced they're hostile. Of course, it's entirely possible, but I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. No one should jump to conclusions based entirely on the length of a lingering stare. I haven't done the statistics, but I'd bet this is how many a confidence is shaken; a long unbroken stare leading inevitably to either a failed dating invite, or the realization of how much spinach you've accumulated in your teeth since lunch. Or, imagine a tough guy misinterpretation of unbroken eye contact as fighting words. If this dangerously uncomfortable stare isn't tearing down someone's body image, or chipping away at their already low self-esteem, it's delivering a black eye to some befuddled guy in a sports bar. It's best to accept the stare as simply a puzzling flaw in social awareness, like those who can't smell the onion of their armpits.
When I make unintended eye contact, my neighbors refuse to break their stare. In fact, I never catch them in the act of glimpsing; they are always already looking, and will hold that for much longer than I'm willing to bear. My discomfort bubbles to the surface well before they become self-aware, and they have the ability to convert perceived discomfort into something beneficial. What the benefit of creating discomfort is, I'm not quite sure. I have a few theories, most rooted in the science fiction genre, embedded with my own distinctive perversions and bias. Perhaps they can consume nervous energy and convert it to sexual energy. Each time they hold a stare beyond the boundaries of normal human interaction, the soul-crushing energy lost when having to break your stare is absorbed into their libidinous chakra points, and converted to raw sexual potential.
When my neighbors spend their evenings staring me down from various vantage points across the street, they're simply preparing for an evening of furious lovemaking. This is the frugal approach to courting your significant other; imagine the money saved - no more scented candles, dinner and a movies, evenings powering down oyster after oyster, expensive pornography subscriptions. I can certainly appreciate their cost-cutting measures in this difficult economic climate; love is not free, and love is not cheap, and love waits for no man.
Unfortunately, it's taking its toll on my delicate energy levels, my fragile ego. Each time I lock eyes, and shortly after, when I break contact and stare off into the distance, I can feel a bit of wind escape my sails. Each surrender, for fear of assigning too much importance to these small but common episodes, sinks me lower. I can feel my shoulders sag, my mouth twitch with false strength, my feet shuffle beneath heavy legs.
I've drafted a note to tape to their front door; anonymous, and it's brief but straightforward. A Sharpie on Index Card has a certain bold way of capturing attention and transmitting information: Please look away!
When I make unintended eye contact, my neighbors refuse to break their stare. In fact, I never catch them in the act of glimpsing; they are always already looking, and will hold that for much longer than I'm willing to bear. My discomfort bubbles to the surface well before they become self-aware, and they have the ability to convert perceived discomfort into something beneficial. What the benefit of creating discomfort is, I'm not quite sure. I have a few theories, most rooted in the science fiction genre, embedded with my own distinctive perversions and bias. Perhaps they can consume nervous energy and convert it to sexual energy. Each time they hold a stare beyond the boundaries of normal human interaction, the soul-crushing energy lost when having to break your stare is absorbed into their libidinous chakra points, and converted to raw sexual potential.
When my neighbors spend their evenings staring me down from various vantage points across the street, they're simply preparing for an evening of furious lovemaking. This is the frugal approach to courting your significant other; imagine the money saved - no more scented candles, dinner and a movies, evenings powering down oyster after oyster, expensive pornography subscriptions. I can certainly appreciate their cost-cutting measures in this difficult economic climate; love is not free, and love is not cheap, and love waits for no man.
Unfortunately, it's taking its toll on my delicate energy levels, my fragile ego. Each time I lock eyes, and shortly after, when I break contact and stare off into the distance, I can feel a bit of wind escape my sails. Each surrender, for fear of assigning too much importance to these small but common episodes, sinks me lower. I can feel my shoulders sag, my mouth twitch with false strength, my feet shuffle beneath heavy legs.
I've drafted a note to tape to their front door; anonymous, and it's brief but straightforward. A Sharpie on Index Card has a certain bold way of capturing attention and transmitting information: Please look away!
