Hello, neighbor! Devon, listen. I saw the moving van outside and just wanted to get a few things off of my chest before you leave forever. Consider this a formal apology.
Sorry for convin—
No, please, let me finish. I prepared this list and everything. My handwriting’s really nice on this, too, so, you know. Please.
Sorry for convincing you uncooked spaghetti is scarecrow bones.
I apologize for slowly making you permanently blond.
That dog. Sorry about it.
Sorry for telling you “freebasing” meant socialist hide-and-seek with cocaine. It was contrived and I could have done better.
Charging children to enter your unit as an elaborate haunted house in April. I would offer you the profits as an olive branch, but I already bought this rad scooter.
Framing you for the murder of that lizard.
Sorry for asking, “What what, chicken butt?” too much.
Sorry for Clockwork Orange-ing you.
Sorry for swapping your LCD screens with LSD screens. Also, though, you’re welcome.
The truth of the matter is I only pronounce it “Bon I-ver” around you because you hate it. I know you do. I know all of your secrets.
Sorry for reading your diary.
Sorry for calling your journal a diary.
I swapped your pills with sugar pills then replaced your sugar with those pills from before.
You’ve never felt actual hand sanitizer. No. Not on my watch.
I am NOT sorry for replacing your smoke detectors with ashtrays, but I do realize I should’ve extinguished the cigarettes first. For the cigarette situation, I apologize.
Sorry for gradually swapping out your shoes with slightly smaller shoes. Your dreams are giant, but you are not. Oh, that’s good – hold on, let me write that down…
That viral video wherein your drunken voicemails are reenacted by xenophobic sock puppets? It was never my intention to get Tosh.0 involved. I’m so sorry.
That second dog.
We’re not living in Jurassic Park. I thought you’d figure that out by now, but here it is on the list.
Sorry for not waking you up when September ended. Warning: I feel like a real American Idiot When I Come Around. Haha, that’s not on here. I’m just going through a Green Day thing. You know, if you’re in the mood for it, their Greatest Hits collection actually holds up. Dookie. Anyway, the list.
The FBI will be here for the diamonds in hours. Your prints are all over them. I’m sorry.
Sorry for keeping you from tending to your dinner right now. It smells magnificent.
Sorry for ordering all those ceramic pots for you. It was Black Friday. What was I supposed to do, not order so many ceramic pots? The price was outrageous, but so is my remorse.
I’m sorry for covertly copying your apartment key when you asked me to look after Second Dog while you went to Freebasing Rehab, thus allowing me access to most of these itemized malfeasances.
Truthfully, though? Cable TV does exist in more ways than just a Frasier VHS on a manual loop.
I am so, so sorry for hacking into every single one of your video game accounts to rename your characters Jar Jar B—NO, YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN STAR WARS. YOU THOUGHT JAR JAR WAS A NICE, EUPHONIC NAME. SO FUCK YOU, DEVON. YOU HEAR ME? YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT STAR WARS AND YOU ARE NOTHING. NOTHING.
I’m sorry for yelling when I feel love too much.
I replaced coffee grinds with dry black tar heroin but you do owe me $800 plus interest or the cartel will have your name and access to all of your video game accounts.
Sorry for legally changing your name to Devon.
Your dreams are giant, but you are not.
Well, that about wraps it up. If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to catch you before you leave. It was fun being your neighbor these past three years, but you know what they say: The only way to survive Jurassic Park is to hold your Frasier VHS high and….
Wait, who is she? Why is she carrying boxes inside?
Oh. I see. Huh. How about that. Well. Hm.
I hope you two have as happy of a life as a couple can have while living in an apartment built on an ancient owl burial ground. You didn’t know? The only way to appease the vengeful owl spirits is to care after at least five very sick mice around the clock. But don’t you worry, Devon. Sixty mysteriously ill mice are on the way.