I don’t want to sound too gleeful about it, but I’ll be leaving you all very soon. Honestly, it’s crushingly burdensome trying to contain my excitement. For one thing, my new place across town will be bigger, with more rooms and more closets, and will be about 10% cheaper. Fan-tastic. That’s not nearly all, though.
The best part is, I’ll never have to see any of you schmucks again. In the three years I’ve lived in this dismal building, the residents next door have changed three times–each time for the worse. First, there was a quiet, unobtrusive momma’s boy who spent every weekend at home with his parents. Then, there was the hippie couple “living in sin” with their two-year-old hippie baby. They weren’t all bad, but they did scream at the child quite a bit, which was unnerving, as she had the same first name I do (oddly, they did not name her something like “Cloud” or “Dragonfly” or “Sativa,” but a boring old name, which is what mine also is). No one likes to hear her own name being shouted angrily all afternoon. The stench of pot and patchouli goes without saying.
But now, oh, now! You current inhabitants of the Flat of Loud Clunks and Rap Music–you are simply the worst. Not only do you harbor delusions of hip-hopular grandeur, practicing your freestyle every single afternoon at top volume with the door open, but your friends! Your friends! They never fucking stop! Every day and night they bang on the door relentlessly, sometimes peppering their knocks with very indecorous language (“Open the fucking door, bitches! I can fucking hear you in there!”). I can only imagine why they need to knock so desperately (I once counted 150-some knocks without pause) at 3 am.
Here’s a tip for you: If you conduct business or entertainment on the shared balcony/walkway, it sounds to the human ear as if you are actually present here in my living room with me. With my eyes closed, I can not tell the difference between when someone is in my house talking, and when someone is standing on the walkway talking. This means I can hear every goddamned thing you say. Every. God. Damned. Word. All of them. Really.
And you slutbags upstairs: Please, for the love of Mike, learn how to walk in heels. Heel, toe, heel, toe, and repeat. Please do not stomp your foot down all at once as if your ankles were encased in cement. If you can’t handle Big Girl Shoes, go back to the Ugg boots. And one more thing: I understand that a couple of rounds of “Miseducation of Lauryn Hill” and a good, shuddering weep session can be very cathartic. Sure I do. But you might consider conducting this exercise indoors; it can really ruin the mood over here.
Thanks for giving some thought to this. Even though I’ll be gone in a couple of weeks, some new stooge will be taking my place, and I’m sure he or she would appreciate it.
So long, Suckas!
P.S. Whoever is throwing the snap ‘n’ pops down the stairs every night had better step off. I don’t care if I am moving out soon, I will fucking cut you.