At 3:51 this morning my upstairs neighbor began stirring. No, not stirring, crashing. No, not crashing, either; setting off a loud, discordant, unrelieved cacophony.
You see, noise pollution is her vocation. She has a fervent, God-given talent, this woman does, for straining furniture and floor joists and rebar to the thunderous brink of implosion. Only airport runways operate at similar decibels.
It seems I’ve spent a lifetime trapped beneath a hat with earflaps, one cinched tight over ears already crammed with cotton and buried under folded socks. But no more. I have, at long last, found a way to defend myself: Aerosmith. Steven Tyler drives her right out of her over-stressed chair and down the stairs to lé boyfriend’s apartment. She specifically dislikes Living on the Edge, but anything Aerosmith does the trick.
Oh, how I love the sound of those gigantic, angry feet stomping their way out the door. It lifts my heart like nothing else.
The only snag is, Aerosmith gets me amped. And 4:00 in the morning is too early to be amped. 4:00 in the morning is too early to be anything but asleep. What can you do at that time of day? The world is closed. So I did the only thing I could think of: I made coffee. Bleary-eyed and a little jangled, I scooped and measured and waited, drumming my fingers beside the mug.
By the third cup I noticed an inappropriate aroma; it was rank and a little putrid. My nose wrinkled in distaste. I picked up the milk carton and clapped eyes on the expiration date: 11-24-2015. Ten long days ago. No, I know, it won’t kill me. Just make me so violently sick I’ll wish it would
I hate karma.
copyright © 2015 the whirly girl