100 Sweet Crabapples for Apt. 31
This, apparently, is untrue, as proven by the asshole who lives below me.
I have lived here for 4 weekend days now, and each Sat/Sun dawns with a backbeat heavy enough to shake my floors. I exaggerate not.
So, considering that installing curtains yesterday turned into a huge gross big fat mess and all I wanted to do was enjoy my newfound bedroom darkness, the crescendoing drummation of thud-thud-thunky-thunky-thud at 5:45am was completely uncool to me.
So, sad and tired but not defeated, I marched down there. Really, there was marching. I took my phone in case s/he pulled a gun (so I could call 911 or use as "crime deterrent" since I do indeed have a Sprint phone). I knock, softly at first and soon with the force of an entire nation behind me. No Answer. Of course not. You are an asshole.
[Please also take into consideration that this is a charming old building which is completely silent and rustic and nice.... except for him/her. And the cute little doormats that serve as welcome to most people's doors are instead replaced on his/her door with a label-maker-made "Beware of Dog" warning. Also keep in mind that there is a strictly enforced No Dogs Allowed rule, so he/she is obviously being self-referential.]
After knocking for about 10 series of knocks, I walk back upstairs.
And I have a thought:
I am your upstairs neighbor.
I tried to solve this diplomatically, and you would have none of it. You made the call.
So I did what any self-preserving girl would do. I put on platform shoes and started tap-dancing on my hardwood floors. Then I took a quick break-- so I could do some drills with my mini basketball.
The music magically stopped.
I was far too proud.