An Open Letter To My Neighbor

Dear Neighbor,

It's two in the morning.  Why on earth are you listening to such awful music at such a horrendously loud volume?  It sounds like Native American chanting mixed with bad folk music or something.  At first, I thought you were just having sex with the guy down the hall again.  That's annoying too, but I was prepared to ignore it.  I was prepared to just tune it out and eat my traditional piece of two a.m. existential cheesecake while surfing through the "missed connections" on Craigslist.  But then I noticed that it had a melody.  Or at least, it's trying to have a melody.  Really, that music is wretched.  I don't understand why you would play it at all, let alone at a high volume in the darkest hours of the night/morning. 

Maybe it's just karma getting me back for all the noise I've made in this room over the past couple of weeks.  Perhaps the universe is finally condemning me for all those late night jam sessions, one-person dance parties, and keytar shredding sessions.  But I don't really see why any of that would deserve karmic punishment.  I mean, I generally keep my noise at a semi-reasonable volume.  And my noise usually sounds like actual music, not like an owl being shoved into a miniature trash compactor.

Seriously, why does that music need to be on right now?  What are you doing in that room?  Are you having a seance or something?  Are you conjuring up the spirits of all the old people that died in your room?  I know it's cool that we live in a building that was formerly a retirement home, but please, stop whatever you're doing. 

You're not having sex with the guy down the hall again, are you?  I thought I heard his voice but maybe it was just my imagination.  I hope that's not the music you listen to when you have sex.  Actually, I don't care.  I just want you to turn that damn music down.  Or off.  Yes, turning it off would be nice. 

I bet you're really high right now.  That would make sense.  I know you smoke pot out of your window a lot.  You told me once.  You probably forgot.  I would know even if you didn't tell me.  There's a freaking mushroom cloud of marijuana smoke emanating from your doorway half of the time.  It's worse than the creepy stoner stairwell (at least they've figured out how to cover it up with Fabreeze a little).

I like you, Neighbor.  I think you're a nice person.  You have interesting taste in fashion and fun stories about Burning Man.  Once you even invited me to go to a sketchy bar in the middle of the night.  I went because I had nothing better to do and I will admit that I had a good time.  But this music?  It needs to go.

I swear, it's only gotten louder since I began writing you this letter.  It's been on for an entire hour now.  Give it a rest already. 

Maybe it's not even coming from your room, Neighbor.  Maybe it's coming from somewhere else.  Maybe I should go out in the hallway and investigate.  I really don't want to do that.  I am all snuggled into my nest of blankets.  I am wearing my pajamas - the ones with the grizzly bears on the pants.  I do not wish to catch anyone in the midst of a seance/tribal celebration/mating ritual.  I guess I'll just siphon some decent music into my ears via headphones and fall asleep. 

I know I signed up for this sort of thing when I agreed to live in a commune, Neighbor, but please, JUST KILL THAT DAMN NEW AGEY MOANING MUSICAL SHIT! 

Peace and Love,

Lauren (The Yank)