favors for favors, fond but not in love

A vodka-induced gripe from Jessica Bitchface:

So, imgaine. It's ten in the morning--just about the time that I'm picking myself out of my teacup and trying to decide what kind of mood I'm in--when they start. The gaggle of urbanites that patrols our street. They have expensive haircuts and dock martin shoes, but appear to have no jobs--how else could they be out at this ungodly hour, when the only signs of life should be me in my windpants and the crazy gardener across the street with his magnifying glass?

But there they are, oblivious to working day hours. They travel sluggishly, like pack animals, in groups of five or six. They have plastic smiles and platinum wedding bands and dogs with pretentious names ("Come here, Prometheus!"). They only say hello to me when I'm wearing my cool black coat. More often than not, they stop outside the house, blocking the walkway, parking their strollers at inconsiderate angles. And they'll stand in this defensive knot and converse, screaming over their screaming kids, as if by proclaiming their lives to the neighborhood they can convince themselves--"See! I'm happy! Jesus CHRIST, am I happy!"

Needless to say, I find my mood darkening.