There’s a lot I could complain about right now. I’m a registered Democrat and a Red Sox fan, and my brother-in-law went to Iraq on Wednesday. Things have been better in Smashville, you know? But instead of complaining about politics or sports or anything really important, I’m going to whine about my new upstairs neighbors, because my theory is that the way to be the Best Blogger in the Whole Wide World, which is, of course, my greatest goal, is to be even more trivial than every other blogger. This isn’t easy, mind you. There are folks out there who make Jean Teasdale from the Onion look like Hemingway in their accessiblity and relevance. But I’m doing my best.
Anymchoodle, here’s my point: I’m going to kill my upstairs neighbors. Those of you who have been reading this site since its earlier incarnation on LJ will remember that I have a bad history with upstairs neighbors. Part of this is because my house was never intended to be an apartment building, so the walls are pretty thin. This means that my neighbors and I, whoever they are, get to know a lot about each other’s musical taste and sex life. But most of the problem is that everyone else sucks except for me. This realization is what lead me to choose to live alone in the first damn place, but until I get my own private island, merely having my own apartment won’t be enough to isolate me from the surging tides of humanity, apparently.
My previous upstairs neighbors were a woman a few years older than me, her 11-year-old son and their ratty little dog. This was annoying enough. My current neighbors are three guys in their early 20s, and I think so far, I’d rather have the dog back.
Here are their sins to date:
1) Tearing up the hallway whilst moving in. There are workmen out there right now, patching up the plaster, and, I hope, painting over the gouges.
2) Leaving the goddamn light on in the hall at all hours of the day and night, which is going on my bill, I just know it. Yes, I know that’s illegal. Life is hard.
3) Not even saying HI to me for FUCK’S SAKE when we run into each other in the hallway. This is only one of them, but c’mon now. Manners.
4) Having a drum set. They haven’t played it yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I saw it when they moved in. Nothing gets past me.
5) This is the worst one. You better sit down. Not taking their garbage out, ever, in the whole three weeks they’ve lived here, but rather stacking their bags and boxes and bottles and BOX SPRING and BAR STOOL and OTHER ITEMS NOT STARTING WITH “B”, BUT STILL FURNITURE OF A LARGE-ISH NATURE, I ASSURE YOU by the side of the house as if the FUCKING JOADS LIVED HERE.
I’m really sorry for all the yelling, but I feel better now, and isn’t that what blogging is all about? Please go back to your regularly scheduled surfing. I think I’ll be okay.