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21 more things = 42

The last post was the 21 things I KNOW at 42. At the end I said I'd consider writing 21 more things to make it 42 in total & then ...


So, uhmmm...

So....I'm s'posed to be on this 30 day letter writing kick. I've thought about it, & it's not really letter writing if I don't actually go the whole distance by using my hands, some kind of pen or plume, & then stick it in an envelope that requires licking & a stamp. If I just do it here, it's no different than any other kind of writing I do—it's all electronic. The other thing...some of the letters I want to write, if I actually went hard & licked an envelope, might be a little disruptive to some people's lives. I don't want that & trust, neither do they. #don'tstartnonewon'tbenone. It's not that I have a bunch of venom to spit on paper, burning holes in papyrus, but there's just something about the way I pitch my pennies that causes people to do a lot of thinking & then makes folks take actions. These actions are typically things that were on the back of their domes anyway, then I pull it forward in some kinda “so...whatchu gon' do/how you gon' ack/speak your heart” type'a way. It's all very subconsciously intentional. That might don't make sense to you, but it does to me.

Anyway, let me get to the point. I do have at least 1 letter that I need to write but don't really know how to get my point across. So, I'ma start here.

Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

Hey Man, hey. How you doing? Everything good witchu? Alright, alright, alright... I know you're probably wondering why I'm writing you from downstairs. Well, it's kinda like this: you. are. killing. me.

Since you joined our little community behind the yellow door it has been an adventure of the listening sort. Simply put, you give me FAR TOO MUCH to listen to on a daily basis. You're the loudest person I've ever met. EVER. I know I've said it to you, & you just think I'm overly sensitive. Well, yes, yes I am. I am a hypersensitive chick, but I'm also reasonable. I don't think it's too much to ask for me not to be able to hear you talk on your phone in front of the building next door from my bedroom. As you know, the bedrooms are at the back of the floor plan. So, if I can hear you from outside, what do you think I'm hearing when you're inside, right above me?

Funny you should ask. Let me tell you.

First of all, I didn't know Timberland made house shoes. But the sole of your house shoes must be made of cinder blocks & ply wood & on a mission to make headache my middle name. Secondly, in the few short months you've been here I've learned a great deal about human interactions. My initial lesson from you came via a phone conversation you were having explaining how there's always someone in your pockets, assuming that 'cuz you're an entrepreneur (spelling bee proper) your wallet's bulging. You don't subscribe to the mo' money, mo' problems philosophy 'cause you ain't quite on that level yet. Hence, your need to verbally slap a few hands & remind people not to try to make sense outta your dollars. #nachobusiness. I was with you on that convo, while I wished I weren't able to hear it word. for. word. I won't bore you with ALL the conversations I've heard, not muffled, but in stereo; I'll just give you the other highlights.

Early 1 Saturday morning I learned all about the Jumpoff. My girlfriend calls 'em Bustdowns, but it's all the same concept. If I didn't know anything about this concept before, you certainly schooled me proper like on the subject. So, like you told ya boy, if you've been doing the Grown Up for 5 years [bruh], it's a relationship. & “if she's callin' you when she knows you're wit'cha lady, you need to cut her back carefully—cuz she's gon' ack a fool.” Then, Christmas morning, I thought you actually were 1 of Temptations, as you sounded like you were trying to honor Baby Jesus with a new manger. As I said, I can hear ALL of your conversations word. for. word. This 1 particular evening I had company. We sat on the couch rappin' a taste after a long day at work (or play, don't remember which). Your phone conversation was so interesting for a grown man that it distracted us from ours. We literally paused mid-sentence more than once to be able to hone in on what you had goin' on. I just have 1 question: did homeboy do as you asked & lose your number?

Your conversations are comically annoying. It IS actually quite funny to be able to hear CLEARLY every word of every conversation that someone above me is having. It's a phenomenon that I can't explain but love when it causes friends' faces to change as they realize someone else sounds like they're in the room...but where are they? Upstairs my friend. Word? To ya mutha.

The comedy of hearing your words is 1 thing. This new occurrence is something else altogether. In the last month or so your lady's been hangin' out A LOT. I'm not into minding other folks' business but when your business bleeds thru my ceiling like a bad horror flick, what do you expect me to do? Youre conversations in the shower in the mornings before work? Yeah, not really part of my commitment to morning silence. & on weekends... I know you're grown & the Bed Spring Bounce is your right & your privilege. Everybody needs a lil' Head Bangin' in their life. I would just ask that the sun is allowed to come up good before I have to hear your bed rock, her moaning, your groaning, things fallin' off what I assume is the nightstand, & the laughter from both of you when things crash & bang above me. See, I get up everyday at 5:45 a.m. On weekends, I don't have to do any of that nonsense. Now, how-ev-ver (in my B.B. voice), I have to countdown to climax before I can roll back over & try to catch 20 more winks. More than the countdown, I hate being able to tell by your collective loud breathing that you're close to climaxing. The very thought makes me cringe. It embarrasses me & makes me feel like I may not be old enough to do the Bed Spring Boogie myself. I feel like I need a permission slip or like I'm not tall enough for the ride. *SHUT UP B.B.*

Can you feel my pain, Upstairs Neighbor? Since you're the Supe & all, it'd be nice if you found a way to put 3...fo'....'leben...12 more inches of padding under the carpet & see if your lady friend might get you some slippers with the warm and fuzzy lambs wool inside as a gift for keepin' her wig tilted on the regular. Out of curiosity though...is she your lady or your Jumpoff? I haven't heard that conversation yet.


Alright...I guess you get the point. I hope 1 day you can really understand what I'm going through down here & take pity on me. I'll bake you a pie or something if you do. I'm just a working woman who likes a little peace & quiet once and in a while. I'll see you in the stairwell & hear you in the everywhere...everyday...eff it.


Downstairs Neighbor.

Watch me move.

1 comment:

  1. Not for nothing but who lets the Super outta the basement (unless his name is Joe Pesci and y'all got the milkman living there)...But different strokes for different folks and until there's a solution you'll be hearing all of 'em. GAME OVER.