Dude. Where's my pants?

I have absolutely no sense, I need "I Live in NYC and Can Ignore Anything" lessons, and I want my pants back.

I was sitting in my apartment, watching QVC with half my attention and surfing the internet with the other half, when there was this huge crash outside - larger than someone tipping the garbage cans and smaller than a car hitting the dumpster. Either way, it got my full attention. Which is good. I might have ordered a tea ball teapot or something. So I looked out, and hello, there's a naked dude in the alleyway, hiding behind that dumpster that the cats use for a toilet/brothel. I was about to call the cops when he looked up and saw me - which is totally my fault for being the lazy ass I am and not taking the higher floor apartment. No, I had to have a 2nd floor apartment so I didn't have to carry my groceries farther than 2 flights. I could have had firmer thighs and no crazy dude, but I have flab and a man running around somewhere in Manhattan with my sweatpants - and my cell phone.

I asked him what the fuck was wrong with him, and he looked up at me and said, "HELP!" With an accent. Yeah. I'm a sucker. Articulate? Can't be a mugger or a con artist rapist fuckwad trying to lure me outside. And he had a superb ass. Clearly I haven't lived in NYC long enough. Or he lives on a higher floor than I do and climbs more stairs.

He said his name is Phillip Something Something Something Jacob Hansejobbe and he's a Viscount. Yeah. And I'm the Queen, which is what I said. He disagreed with me.

Either way, I couldn't leave him sitting out there and I sure as shit wasn't inviting him inside, so I tossed my sweatpants out the window - but I forgot that I'd worn them to Gristede's this morning and I left my cell phone in the pocket.

I am such a tool. And so is he because he won't ANSWER the damn PHONE and now I have to cancel the number. Or find the man in my pants. Either way, this day sucks.