An Open Letter to that "Staring Woman"

Dear "Woman Who Stares at Me While I'm on the Porch":

When I step out onto my second floor porch I am often bemused and bewildered to see you transfixed in my general direction. At first, I brush it off as simple curiosity that spills into a social faux pas. Soon thereafter, I become freaked-out and paranoid. Stop that.

I know from your vantage point, you think you're safe to gawk at me like I am some circus geek with testicles growing out of my second head's ear. You think I wouldn't notice since I'm so high up off the ground and you're some short woman tucked away some nook of your exterior. But see you I do. See you I do well.

So what the hell are you staring at anyway? Are you looking up at me in disapproval because of my disgusting smoking habit? Nah, you can't be - I see you smoking too. Are you wondering why I stand so tall on my perch as I look down onto the street and point my strongest finger as I pretend to be a god on a "smiting" kick? Perhaps. Are you hypnotized by the way my floppy man-boobs sway playfully in the breeze? It's a strong possibility.

Whatever the reason, please stop, crazy lady.

Sincerely,
"Paranoid on the Porch"