Okay. For months, I have resisted saying anything, because I know that it is an old building, that there is no insulation, that you are not intentionally driving me out of my mind by causing as much noise as you possibly can, and that, if I ever were to say anything, no matter how politely I said it, I would still immediately be the cranky, insane bitch who lives downstairs. So, I have turned on fans, and turned up music, and had a drink, and reminded myself that at least I don’t live in Washington Heights, and thus am not constantly bombarded by explosive domestic fights, raging parties and, worst of all, relentlessly pounding Reggaeton from all sides. So, I have been trying to quietly abide.
But, OH MY GOD, what in the name of sweet, frolicsome Sam could you Possibly be doing up there, seriously????!!!!!
I mean, are you building large-scale art installations? Are you involved in constant relay-racing in an attempt to break some obscure world record? Do you suffer from a disease in which you must continually tap some part of your body on the floors or walls, or alternatively, continually push your furniture from one side of the room to the other, or you’ll simply have a nervous breakdown and have to be hospitalized? Are there actually fifteen of you living there, and not enough seating for all of you at once?
WHAT?
Because 99.99% of the time that I spend in my apartment, I am sitting on my ass. I may be sitting on it in front of the television, or I may be sitting on it in front of the computer, I may be sitting on it on the toilet, or lying on it in bed. But on it I am! You know what, (barring the occasional stocking-footed pad to the fridge or the bathroom) I am never on? MY FEET!
But you, on the other hand, are continually on the go. I don’t know what there is to do in an apartment that could possibly cause the type of athletic noises coming out of yours. When I picture entering your apartment, I can only picture Wonka ushering Charlie into the Chocolate Room. The door of your apartment cannot possibly lead into a normal Brooklyn domestic situation. It must be a portal into some sort of time-and-space-continuum-defying funhouse of mad rides, insane obstacle courses, and whimsical entertainments. Nothing else could possibly cause such a continual racket.
Which brings me to the other inexplicable thing about your constant noise: its very constancy. Seriously, you are ALWAYS home. And you are ALWAYS announcing it. At 2 in the morning, at 6 in the morning, at 4 in the afternoon: you are home, and you are on the move. I know this, because I am also always home, because I am (a) unemployed and (b) a total loser, but I tend to consider myself an oddity in that respect. Most people (and correct me if I’m wrong) tend to leave their apartments from time to time, yes? If for no other reason than to pay for them. Perhaps you are independently wealthy (which explains how you afford your drum sets and trampolines), but don’t you have friends? Don’t you have things to do? You’re obviously fond of sport – wouldn’t you like to try it out in the park?
Okay, I admit, I spend all day every day sitting at my desk, where I read, eat sandwiches, and stare at my knees. I call this “writing.” But the vast majority of people possess neither the endurance nor the desire to so fully dedicate themselves to such dull and unrewarding self-delusion, and I know that you are not dedicating yourself to it, because if you were, you would be QUIET! So, what, pray tell me, is your excuse?
….Alright, I’m going back downstairs now. I’m sure that my frothing diatribe will sufficiently inspire you in future to break your long-established habits, and spend all your time carefully attending to whatever effects your merest movements might be having on the neurotic, over-caffeinated, agoraphobic downstairs. So delighted to have met you, and we really must try to avoid ever running across each other again! Good day.
