Won't you be my neighbor?

Dobby McDobberson, you're such a bug-eyed cutie. 

These pictures in no way pertain to the preceding story. Just go with it, okay? 

We've been in our apartment for a solid ten months now,

and I've come to the conclusion that our neighbors are bat$%!* crazy. 

Sharing our front stairwell are the "dog whisperers".

The guys right next to us open and close their

front door more often than anyone I've ever met in my life.

And of course, every time they do this, the dogs wildly attack the front door.
But that's not even the weird part.

Let me set this up for you...so, our front door is right next to our sliding glass balcony door. 

The balcony has a railing with a few inch gap between the railing and the floor of the balcony.

When these guys leave their apartment, they like to pause on the stairs and peak through 

the crack below our balcony rail so they can make faces at Yoshi and Dobby.

And it's not like we're all chummy and what not.
I think I've spoken to them once. Maybe twice. Super creepy.
I discovered this when one time I ran to the door
to scold Dobby for barking. I glanced sideways out the glass door. He was wiggling his fingers.
We made eye contact. The moment was saturated with awkward.
And it gets worse.
Let's talk about the neighbors whose balcony is across from ours, shall we?
We shall. At first we just noticed a frail little old man who, every few days,
would step out onto the balcony and leave his freshly shined shoes drying (do
you dry shined shoes? I wouldn't know...) on the balcony rail.
But then we saw the large, baggy black clothes wearing, dark glasses sporting,
definitely much younger woman who lived with him.
And then there came the trash bags that began to pile up on their balcony.
And then there was that day I was sitting at the kitchen table, innocently minding my own
business when I looked out the window and there she was, standing on the balcony
in an ill-fitting spaghetti strap shirt and no bra, bent over a trash bag.
I. Saw. Everything.
In all of its saggy-ness. I'm still trying to erase that memory.
Next came the second woman who, months ago, appeared at their doorstep
carrying a suitcase and still hasn't left.
The only things I can gather about woman numero dos
are that she does all of their laundry, she likes to whack pineapples with a giant clever
on the balcony and she doesn't shave her armpits.
None of these things reassures me of her normalcy.
Are these people hoarders? Is woman numero dos a weird, live-in, hippie maid?
I may never know. But rest assured, I'm willing to risk witnessing
more potential nip-slips in order to find out.