DISCLAIMER: The following entry was written on little sleep and with much anger. Ignore if you want.
My seething, bubbling anger won’t let me sleep. It’s like heartburn multiplied by a thousand angry suns and it’s making my chest beat faster and it’s making my shoulders feel icy and hot.
Our asshole neighbors are at it again and I can’t stand it. Once again, partying it up early on a weekday morning as if it were just another normal time to do it; as if every aging spoiled child had the right to stay up talking to their wilting, used-and-jaded-looking bloated friends as late as they want. I am not saying that to be overly mean: they sound about my age but look 10 years older.
We’ve gone over to talk to them, and we’ve been treated to their utter apathy, followed by half-hearted apologies and the like.
I guess they cannot fit it in their heads that we DO NOT want to party; that there are people who DO NOT enjoy sitting outside and guffawing loudly on a weekday night while licking ashtrays. To them we must appear so sad– so much partying potential wasted on these curmodgeony people who are constantly asking them to take it inside at 3 am. Such bitter lives, spent servicing some baby-thing.
After all, partying during the weekend is so domestique… isn’t there some sort of saying in French about how "samedi soir, n’est que pour les bonnes"? ("Saturday night is only for the help"?)
Paris Hilton never parties on a weekend, you know: it’s all weekdays, people. Which, of course, makes my heart fill with even more hatred for my neighbors: they are like living with dumpier versions of Paris, who is at least considerate enough to her neighbors and makes a point of partying in actual clubs and not in her backyard terrace thingy, laughing like a hyena.
We must look so loserly, while they are so fabulous. So fabulous with their cool cigarettes, their cushy little Washington-senator-asswiper jobs, their disposable income, their lack of morals, and their loads of liquor.
They wonder why we don’t want to be just like them, and they despise us. I just know it.
But I’m sure that when they pack it up and sleep in until noon –the righteous sleep of the wasted partier– they might be more than a trifle indignant if they are to be awakened by the sounds of the lowly menial worker.
If you see me dangling from a utility pole with a boombox, just keep walking.