Announcement: I Hate My Upstairs Neighbor

I swear to god that the guy in unit C-4, whose apartment dimensions are exactly the same as mine, is a candy ass. He doesn’t have the balls to commit suicide, so he’s out to enrage me to the point where I kill him. He stomps around like his shoes weigh eighty pounds apiece, during all hours of the day and night. Stomp stomp stomp. It’s unreal.

I’ve spoken to him about this before. I went up and politely knocked on his door, explaining the problem. Guy’s built and looks like Dustin Hoffman; I outweigh him by an easy seventy pounds and stand about a foot taller, but I also have a rather easy step (no ‘light in the loafer’ jokes, you mooks), at least by comparison. I even took him into his back bedroom and explained that it was directly under this point that he should be especially considerate after 11:00 pm, as we sleep directly below him.

Things were fine after that for a while. Rather, things were acceptable. He still walked with a very heavy heel-toe clomp, but you could tell he didn’t want to face my ire again anytime soon, polite as I was trying to be, and he did settle down for a time.

Until I started working from home, I hadn’t known that he did too. And now, every day when I sit down to write this junk, he’s up there, scrambling around like he’s late and misplaced his fucking keys, only he doesn’t find them for hours on end.

In recent weeks, he’s seemingly completely forgotten about our little chat, and well after the wee hours he’s moving furniture above us, and even dislodging plaster fragments within our walls; we can hear them tumbling down from behind our heads.

Motherfucker has a death wish. I have many blunt instruments that would do the trick nicely, and don’t think I don’t eyeball them late at night while he’s practicing the fucking flamenco.

Of course I won’t do it, certainly not after posting this on the internet, I’ve seen all the Law and Orders, I know how this shit works. I’m just bitching because I’m bitching. Because I’m a bitch.