Dear Abby,

I am a moderately crazy woman who, at work and in most social situations, seems well-adjusted and friendly. I have a lovely life with a very tall man and two delightful little dogs. I love our home, my jobs, and my computer. Here's my problem, Abby: I am terrified at the idea of making friends with my neighbors. Or even seeing them. Or having them see me. Yes, this begs the question, "Why the piss would someone so dysfunctional move into a cozy neighborhood full of dog-walking conversationalists?" and even more to the point, "Why in the name of the holy of holies would you marry a man who will strike up a conversation with a pigeon and in the first 24 hours made friends with the drug-dealing, dying, drunk next door who sweeps the street at midnight?"

Help me, Abby. I am so desperate that I will wait until my neighbors go inside to run out and drive away in my car. Why? They seem pleasant enough. Maybe they're just waiting for the chance to bring me chocolate chip cookies and who am I to stand in the way of their dreams? In therapy speak, "What's the worst that could happen?" Tell me, what?

-quivering behind drawn blinds