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Guest Post: Don’t Sh*t Where You Eat

by Anthony Dewitt

This is the story of how I learned the 101 on neighbor etiquette before I moved to the 212. This is Rule 1: Don’t Shit Where You Eat.


I learned sometimes it shits back. Yes, you heard me right. Sometimes it takes a big ‘ole you-know-what right back on you, either  physically or  in life.

This whole hot steamy mess started back before I moved to New York. I lived downtown, in another city, in a building as close to Friends, Melrose Place and Barbary Lane as you can get without reenacting the scenes.

The building only had 16 units and we are all up in each other’s business constantly. And of course my hot gay crush lived downstairs from me. He was everything I thought I wanted. He was fit with a shaved Channing Tatum look and he did handiwork – aka Bro.


(Read: What I look for in a man has changed since these events took place).

After 6 months of small talk at the mailbox (located by his door and by the stairs to my apartment), he invited me over for a building get together. And I really thought things were starting to look up.

But let’s get real it was awkward as hell. But by the end of that first night, with the help of a trivia app I won’t name, we managed strip trivia.

And then… nothing happened.

You can imagine the disappointment. Trying to NOT creepily like this neighbor for six months and then get thrown to the wolves.

After a couple more visits I found out he was suffering from some sort of depression or disorder. His odd sleeping patterns and inability to go to work were the first indicators. Not to mention the CRAZY amounts of pills on his bathroom counter. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! STAY WAY. You think I did. Hell No. I was thinking with my dick.


One fateful night a couple weeks after “strip trivia” I threw a dinner party for the building. We did this all the time and thought we were the bees knees. My first mistake was that I made my grandma’s stuffed cabbage, which for the record everyone loves, but it gives everyone the shits.

Nonetheless the night went on. Everyone boozed it up and ate their hearts out. At the end of the night I helped hot neighbor stumble down to his apartment. My second mistake came in when I decided to stay there.

He proceeded to fall over his coffee table and take off his clothes. Let’s just say mixing booze and antidepressants makes a girl get a little cray cray. I’m not judging.

What happened next I’ll never forget. He laid on the couch with me and right I felt it coming, that familiar moment, that moment before a kiss happens…

I went for it.

He didn’t.



I stayed there like an asshole on the couch with him. He was out cold in less than 10 minutes. Suddenly, a horrific smell permeated my breathing space. It was like Chinatown in July.

Obviously my next move should have been to get the hell out of there but I just moved to the other side of the couch. In the morning I left like nothing happened. When I went to take a shower I looked down at my cheap, but cute, H&M underwear to find they were not as grey as the used to be.

That’s right he shit himself…perhaps being the big spoon, as we spooned the night away, was not such a good idea. We never had a conversation of more than two words after that.

I lost a cute pair of underwear.

And he lost his dignity.

Some time after, there were some awkward run-ins at the mailbox, or when we would pass each other on our way out. Ultimately though, that was the end of that crush.

So if you take anything from this vulgar post please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD do not shit where you eat.  Take a lesson from me. Because sometimes its too close to home and takes a shit right back. And believe me ladies the man of your dreams will have the courtesy to use the toilet.

Follow Anthony on Twitter @DeWittAJ.

More related links:

I Dated a Felon
The Homemaker and Homewrecker
Diary of a Gay Spinster


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