Boring Real Life

Well so here’s the part where I jump into divulging mildly confidential info and am thus forced to keep this site anonymous forever and ever ever.  But first, the noise problem.

The part of the neighborhood I moved to is made up mostly of people waiting to die.  They are old.  They are great as far as old people go, though.  At least to someone who’s used to a certain stereotype of the elderly as quivering, barely mobile, mostly silent and lacking in the spunk department.  Where’d I come up with all that awful bigot-ey bullshit? Well the southwest, natch.  My point is, though, that here you get some real live wires.

Take my upstairs neighbors as an example.  They scream at each other all the time, move furniture in the middle of the night (2 AM), and have crazy topics as fall-back conversation.  When encountered in the laundry room, the old man from upstairs likes to wistfully declare that the “Indians” had it right.  “Huh?”
“The Indians had it right hundreds of years ago.”
Me: “H- how so?”
Upstair Old Guy: “They never washed their clothes.”
Me: “Oh, yeah?”
UOG: “Yeaaah, they had the right idea, this washing stuff’s for the boids.”
Me: “Is that right.  Well I think I prefer being clean.  It gets a little unpleasant after a few days–”
Uog: “Naah, they really had life down back then, those Indians. You have a nice day.”
Me: “You too”

Problem is they’re fucking loud sons of bitches.  Even when they are off to Florida until April, like the building manager (who’s sympathies lie firmly with the older residents) claims. In fact, as I write this I hear something large being dragged across the floor.  And I have to be the crazy psycho who forces the sweet old couple to buy carpets (which everyone is required to have).  And leave asshole notes tucked in between the doorknob and door jam.  Which bitch about loud humming machinery that turn out to be in the basement and NOT in the “empty” apartment upstairs.  So now I’m crazy.

Work
So two more people got fired last week.  I’m wrapping up the last episode of the show I cut, and would probably be the next in line.  And I bought an apartment.  This is a new type of stress.  And the messed up thing is I’m finding myself getting boxed into WANTING this job badly because of the mortgage and the inherent potential depression factor of being jobless in Siberian Brooklyn.  Nuts.

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